SONGS    OF   LIFE. 


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SELECTED  FROM  MANY  SOURCES, 


WITH      NT'MEUOUS     ILLUSTRATIONS     FliOM     ORIGINAL     DESIGNS. 


IIENNESSY,  DARLEY,  GPJSWOLD,  FENX,  EYTINGE,  IlERRICK, 
WARD,  HOPPIN,  &c.,  kc. 


NEW    YORK: 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER    &    COMPANY 
1870. 


Eiitrieil  aocoHliiifr  to  Act  ot  Cimirress,  in  tlie  yciir  1SC9, 

i;v  (.  IIAULKS  SCKIBNEK  &  CO., 

In  the  Clc'ik"s  Office  ot  the  District  ('(Hiit  of  the  United  Slates  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


ALVORD,     riUNTEK. 


'flOl 


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PUBLISHERS'  NOTE. 


Some  years  since  the  present  publishers  issued  the  first  edition  of  Folk 
Songs,  selected  and  edi-ted  by  John  Williamson  Palmer,  M.  D.  This 
was  followed  by  a  second,  revised  and  enlarged.  The  size  and  consequent 
cost  of  these  editions  prevented  that  large  circulation  which  the  selection 
deserved,  and  now  in  accordance  with  a  suggestion  frequently  made,  they 
have  rearranged  the  material  in  four  divisions.  The  present  volume, 
SoN(JS  OF  Life,  is  the  first  of  the  re-issue.  The  remainder  will  be  pub- 
lished at  regular  intervals,  under  the  title  of  Sonos  of  the  Heart,  Songs 
OF  Nature,  Songs  of  Home,  Each  volume  will  be  complete  in  itself,  and, 
like  the  present,  be  enriched  with  additional  illusti-ations  by  the  best 
artists. 


mTRODUCTlO:^'. 


He  wlio  walks  through  a  Conservatory  of  choicest  flowers,  with  an 
accorded  privilfge  of  selecting  specimens  of  such  as  strike  his  foncy  and 
please  his  taste,  will  often  find  an  added  pleasure  in  the  thought  that 
those  which  he  plucks,  having  already  been  a  joy  to  their  first  possessors, 
are  now  to  become  ministers  of  delight,  not  only  to  himself,  but  to  others 
whom  he  loves.  Thus  these  products  of  many  lands,  of  diverse  form, 
of  delicate  hue,  redolent  of  pei'fume,  the  ever-varying  types  of  love- 
liness, ninintain,  independent  of  all  place  and  individual  possession, 
their  power  over  the  heart  and  life  of  those  who  love  the  beautiful  and 
pure. 

The  Flowers  of  Poetry,  herein  gathered  from  the  gardens  and  by  the 
streams  of  our  own  land,  as  well  as  from  lands  and  places  beyond  the 
sea,  who  shall  attempt  to  write  the  story  of  their  ministry?  what  af- 
fections they  have  stirred,  what  memories  wakened,  what  hopes  quick- 
ened, or  fears  quelled,  or  joys  and  plensures  created,  since  they  came 
fresh  and  glowing  from  the  heart  and  brain  of  those  who  made  them? 
That  which  they  have  already  done  they  will  continue  to  do.  They  are 
the  Flowers  Perennial ;  fair  to  behold,  without  the  elements  of  decay. 
Over  seas  and  across  continents,  in  quiet  homes  as  in  laboring  ships,  in 
public  places  as  in  solitary  ways,  they  are  ever  borne,  making  some 
dreary  spots  less  dreary,  while  the  sunny  jilaces  are  more  glad  because 
of  their  presence. 


\iii  INTRODUCTION. 

Some  of  these  here  offered  have  long  held  a  conspicuous  place  in  the 
Garlands  of  Song.  That  they  are  familiar,  will  render  them  none  the 
less  fragrant  and  acceptable.  Beside  them  are  others  less  widely  known, 
and  a  few  from  regions  that  are  far  away ;  but  in  all  of  them  may  be 
found  that  which  makes  them  worthy  of  the  praise  that  belongs  to  what- 
ever 1  ightly  moves  and  cultures  the  heart  of  man. 


CONTENTS. 


Pagb 

Bugle   Song Alfred  Tennysm 1 

Song Chn'stMa  G.  liossetti 2 

The   Piper William  Blake 3 

The  Awakening  of  Endymion Lelitia  Elizabeth  Landon 4 

The   Pauper's  Drive Thomas  Nod 7 

WiNiFREDA Anonymous 8 

Incident  of  the  French   Camp Robert  Browning 10 

Deadness  in  the   Country William  Barnes 12 

Tom  Bowling Charles  Dihdin 1 ;! 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans   Merci John  Keats 14 

The   String  Token William  Barnes 16 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs Thomas  Hood J  7 

The  Last  Leaf Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 22 

To  Althea  from   Prison Richard  Lovelace 24 

It  Xever   Comes  Again   Richard  Henry  Stoddard 26 

The  Age   of  "Wisdom William  Makepeace  Tliackeray 27 

Youth   and  Age Samuel  Taylor  Colerid'je 29 

The  Lorelei Trandatioji  of  Christopher  Pearse  Granch ;!1 

Without  and  Within James  Rnasell  Lou-ell 32 

Sir  Patrick   Spens Anonymous :!4 

An  Angel  in  the   House Leigh  Hunt 39 

The   Merry  Chasseur Sydney  DoheU 10 

The  Song  of  the    Shirt Thomas  Hood 43 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigadk Alfred  Tennyson 47 

Song  of  the   Silent  Land Translation  of  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfelloiv 50 

The  One   Gray  Hair Walter  Savage  Landor 51 

The  Shepherd's   Resolution George  Wither 52 

The  Old  Continentals Guy  Humphrey  McMosler 53 

Napoleon  and   the  British  Sailor Thomas  Campbell 57 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor Samuel  Ferguson 60 

IIow  they  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix Robert  Browning 'iS 


X  CONTENTS. 

Tage 

\o  Mure Fdxia  Dorothea  IJemaiis OS 

KCiRXER's  Sword  Soxg Translation  of  William  B.  Chorley 70 

Little  axd  Great Charles  Mockay 71 

The  River   Time Benjamin  Franllin  Taylor 77 

Give  Me  tub  Old Robert  Ilincldey  Messimjer..  .-.  .  78 

Rest  and   Labor Dinah  Maria  Muloch SI 

He  Staxdetii  at  the  Door  axd  Kxocketii Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe 82 

Gulf  Weed Cornelius  George  Fenn  r 83 

Exhortation  to   Prayer Margaret  Mercer Si 

TiiE  Good  Great  Max  Sainuel  Taylor  Coleridge 86 

Dirge  op  Jepiithah's   Daughter Bobert  Herrick 87 

L^^x^EEX  Spirits Xathaniel  Parker  WiUis 91 

The  Crooked  Footpath Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 93 

IxvocATiox  TO  SiLEXCE Richard  Flecknoe 95 

A  Lyke-wake   Dirge Anonyvmus 9tt 

Song Christina  0.  Rosseiii. ....  97 

The  Crowded  Street William  Cullen  Bryant 9S 

The  "War  Song  of  Dixa3  A^'awr Thomas  L.ve  Peacock 100 

Mother  Margery George  Shepherd  Burleigh 102 

Louis  XV John  Sterling 105 

The  Storming  of  Magdebukgh WtUiam  Maginn.  ...  107 

The  Kixg  of  Dexmark's  Ride Ca>oline  Elizabeth  Xorton 109 

[  Give  my  Soldier   Boy  a  Blade Willia7n  Maginn 112 

The  Mahogaxy'  Thee William  Makepeace  Thackeray 113 

The  Grace  of  Simplicity^ Ben  Joknton 115 

The  Soldier's  Dream Thomas  Carophell. ....  116 

It  is  Not  Beauty  I  Demax'd Thomas  Carew 117 

The  Beggar's  Courage Translat'o.i  of  William  Rounsenville  Alger 119 

The  Happy  Life Sir  Henry   Wotton 120 

The  Gifts  of  God Gcoige  Herbert 121 

The  Hymx  of  Damascenus Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 122 

A  Thanksgiving William  Dean  HowtlU 124 

FiXCELSiOR Henry  Wadsuorth  I/mgfelloiu 1 24 

The  Emigrants  ix  Bermudas Andreiv  Marvell 120 

The   Singers  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 128 

The  Mariner's  Wife William  Jvlius  Mickle -130 

Tibbie Robert  Burm 133 

"Whex  the  Sultax  goes  to  Ispahax Thomas  Bailey  Aldrirh 13.") 

The  Angel WiUiam  Blake 137 


CONTENTS.  xi 

My  Lady  Sixging Av.brey  De  Vere 1 39 

The  Sword  of  Castrl-ccio  Castrttcani Elizabeth  BamM  Browning 139 

SoxG  OF  Ariel Skak^j^eurt Ul 

The  Parting  Lovers Translation  of  William  JRoicsenville  Alger 142 

The  Ravex • Edgar  Allan  Foe 142 

The  Sabbath  Morning John  Leyden 150 

SoxNET  ox  his   Blixdxess John  Milton 151 

To  Keep  a  True  Lext Bobert  Herrick 151 

The  Emigrants Translotion  of  Charles  T.  Brooks 153 

SoxG  of  Fairies Thomas  Eavdnlph 156 

Sir  Peter Thomas  Lore  Peacock 156 

Arustroxg's  Good   Xight    Anonymous 157 

The  Sentry Translation  of  Charles  Godfrey  Leland 158 

The  "World  is  Too   Much  With  Us ...  William    Wordsivorth 159 

Long Thomas  Heywood. ....  160 

How  Sleep  the   Brave William  Collins 162 

Soxg Sir  William  Darenant 162 

.To  Ideje   Lement  a  Xap Translati'm  of  Sir  John  Botvring 163 

KcHO  and  Silence Sir  Egertm  Brydges 164 

The  Sabbath Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 165 

Ox  First  Lookixg  ixto  Chapman's  Homer John  Keats 166 

The  Makixg  of  Man Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 168 

Calm  is  the  Xight Translation  of  Charles  Godfrey  Leland 170 

If  I  Desire  with  Pleasant  Songs Thomas  Burhidge 171 

The  Undiscovered  Country Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 172 

Nearer  to  Thek Sarah  Flower  Adam^- 173 

The  High  Tide  ox  the  Coast  of  Lixcolxshire Jean  Ingeloic 174 

(,'OME  Sleep,  0  Sleep Sir  Philip  Sidney IS i 

Jolly  Old   Pedagogue George  Arnold..  ...  182 

Caught     Richard  Hei\ry  Stoddard. ....  187 

A  Dedication    . .    Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. ...  187 

The  Last  Poet Translation  of  Xothnniel  Langdon  Frothingham. ...  191 


LIST  (»F  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


SUBJECT.  DKAWN    ISY  ENGRAVKl)    BT 

Bugle  Song Fenn 1 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp H.  W.  Ilerrick 10 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs Eytinge Anthony 17 

The  Last  Leaf .  .    Ilennessy Anthony 22 

The  Age  of  Wisdom Eytinge Anthony '27 

•'  My  Coachman  in  the  Moonlight  theri?."'  . .  McLenan Anthony .'52 

••  The  Galley  Slave  of  Dreary  Forms."  ....  McLenan Antliony o4 

The  Merry  Chasseur H.  W.  Htrrkk 40 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt Hoppin Aniliou}- 43 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade Meffert Andrew  Filmer. . . .  48 

•'Then  the  Bare-headed  Colonel." Darley Anthony 55 

The  Drummer Darley Anthony 56 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor Fenn (jO 

"  Good  Speed  !  cried  the  Watch." Heine Cox 65 

As  I  Sat,  with  his  Head  'twist  my  Knees, 

on  the  Groi.nd Mefiftrt Cox 67 

Initial  Letter Heine Cox 70 

Tail  Piece Heine Cox 7:5 

Little  and  Great Bensell 74 

Gulf  Weed Parsons Bobbett  &  Hooper 83 

The  Crooked  Footpath C.  C.  Griswold 03 

The  King  of  Denmark's  Bide Bensell 10!) 


xiv  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

The  Singers Macdonoush Anthony 128 

TinuiE Ehninger 133 

The  Sabbath  Mouxixg C.  C.  Griswold  150 

The  Emigkaxts Ward "Ward 1 54 

SoxG Herrick 1  CO 

"  Sii.EXT,  upox  A  Peak  ix  Dakiux." Cliapman Haye.« 1 G7 

Calm  is  the  Night K.  .T.  Wliitncv . .  .Kingdou  it  Bovd., ...  170 

The  Jolly  Old  Pedagogv e Hennessv 182 


AUTOGRAPHS 


The  Singers Longfellow Fare Title. 

The  Soxg  of  the   Shirt Hood \?, 

How  THEY  Brought  the  Good   Xews.  .  .  .Browniiicr 65 

UxsEEN  Spirits Willis 91 

The  Sword  of   Oastruccio   Castrucaxi  .  .  Browning 1  :v.) 

Birds  are  Sixgixg  rouxd  my  Wixdow.  .  .Stoddard 1S7 


-Si^-S:^^- 

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RUGLE    SONG. 


The  spleiulor  fjills  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  ; 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
1 


SONG. 

Ulow,   l)n<:i;le.   l)lo\v  I   set  tlie  ■wild  eclioos  flyinii  : 
I>lc)\v,  bucrle  !   answer,  echoes  —  flying,  dvino;,  (lyini;; ! 

O  hark,   O  liear  I  how  tliin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  flirther  goincr! 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar. 
The  horns  of  Elfland  fliintly  blowinix! 
Blow  !  let  us  hear  the  purj^le  glens  replyino;  : 
Blow,  bngle  !   answer,  echoes  —  dying,  dying,  dyinu; ! 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky  ; 

Tliey  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  ! 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,   blow  I  set  the  wild  echoes  flving ; 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer! — dying,  dying,  dying  I 

Ar.FRKD  Tkxnyson. 


SOXG. 


O  ROSES  for  the  flush  of  youth, 

And  laurel  for  the  ]>erfeet  prime ; 
But  ])luck  an  ivy  branch  for  me 

Grown  old  before  my  time. 

O  violets  for  the  grave  of  youth. 

And  bay  for  those  dead  in  their  prime; 

Give  me  the  withered  leaves  I  chose 
Before  in  tlie  old  time. 

CiiiiiSTiXA   (t.    Ros^;ktti. 


THE   PIPER. 

Piping  clown  the  valleys  wild, 

Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee. 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me : 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb." 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
"  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again." 

So  I  piped  ;  he  wept  to  hear. 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy    happy  pipe  ; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer.' 
So  I  sang  the  same  again. 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear, 

"  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write, 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  iniral  pen  ; 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear ; 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

William    F^lakk 


THE   AWAKENING    OF   ENDYMION 

Lose  upon  u  mountain,  the  pine-trees  wailing  round  him, 
Lone  upon  a  mountain  the  Grecian  youth  is  laid  ; 

Sleep,  mystic  sleep,  for  many  a  year  has  bound  him. 

Yet  his  beauty,  like  a  statue's,  pale  and  fair,  is  undecayed. 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 

When  will  he  awaken?    a  loud  voice  hath  been  crying 
Night  after  night — and  the  cry  has  been  in  vain  ; 

Winds,  woods,  and  waves  found  echoes  for  replying, 

But  the  tones  of  the  beloved  one  were   never  heard  again. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Asked  the  midnight's  silver  queen. 

Never  mortal  eye  has  looked  upon  his  sleej^ing ; 

Parents,  kindred,  comrades,  have  mourned  for  him  as  dead  ; 
By  day  the  gathered  clouds  have  had  him  in  their  keeping. 

And  at  night  the  solemn  shadows  round  his  rest  are  shed. 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Long  has  been  the  cry  of  faithful  Love's  imploring ; 

Long  has  Hope  been  watching  with  soft  eyes  fixed  above. 
Wlien  will  the  Fates,  the  life  of  life  restoring, 

Own  tltemselves  vanquished  by  much-enduring  Love? 
A^Hien  will  he  awaken  ? 

Asks  the  midnight's  weary  queen. 

4 


THE   AWAKENING   OF   ENDY^IION.  5 

Beautiful  the  sleep  that  she  has  watched  untiring, 
Liglited  up  with  visions  from  yonder  radiant  sky, 

Full  of  an  immortal's  glorious  inspiring, 

Softened  by  the  woman's  meek  and  loving  sigh. 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 

He  has  been  dreaming  of  old  heroic  stories, 

The  Poet's  passionate  world  has  entered  in  his  soul  : 

He  lias  grown  conscious  of  life's  ancestral  glories. 

When  sages  and  when  kings  first  upheld  the  mind's  control. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Asks  the  midnight's  stately  queen. 

Lo,  the  appointed  midnight !  the  present  liour  is  fated  I 

It  is  Endymion's  planet  that  rises  on  the  air  ; 
How  long,  how  tenderly  his  goddess  love  has  waited, 

Waited  with  a  love  too  mighty  for  despair ! 
Soon  he  will  awaken. 

Soft  am'id  the  pines  is  a  sound  as  if  of  singing. 

Tones  that  seem  the  lute's  from  the  breathing  flowers  dejiart ; 
Xot  a  wind  that  wanders  o'er  ^Nlount  Latmos  but  is  l)riiiging 

Music  that  is  nunnnured  from  Nature's  inmost  heart. 
Soon  he  will  awaken 

To  his  and  midnight's  queen. 

Lovely  is  the  green  earth — she  knows  the  hour  is  holy  ; 

Starry  are  the  heavens,  lit  with  eternal  joy  ; 
I^io;ht  like  their  own  is  dawning  sweet  and  slowly 

O'er  the  fair  and  scidptiu'cd  forehead  of  that  yet  divaming  boy 
Soon  he  will  awaken. 


THE    AWAKENING    OF    ENUYMION. 

Red  as  the  red  rose  toward  the  morning  turning, 

Warms  the  youth's  lip  to  the  Avatcher's  near  his  own  ; 

While  the  dark  eyes  open — bright,  intense,  and  burning 

With  a  life  more  glorious  than,  ere  they  tloscd,   was  known. 

Yes,  he  has  awakened 
For  the  midnight's  hap})y  queen  I 

What  is  this  old  history,  but  a  lesson  given, 

How  ti'ue  love  still  conquers  by  the  deep  strength  of  truth  ; 
How  all  the  impulses,  whose  native  home  is  hea\en. 

Sanctify  the  visions  of  hope,  and  faith,  and  youth  ? 
'Tis  for  such  they  waken. 

When  every  worldly  thought  is  utterly  forsaken. 

Comes  the  starry  midnight,  felt  by  life's  gifted  few  ; 

Then  will  the  spirit  from  its  earthly  sleep  awaken 
To  a  being  more  intoise,  more  spiritual,  and  true. 

So  doth  the  soul  awaken, 
Like  that  youth  to  night's  fan*  queen  I 

LkTITIA    ElIZAHKTU    i^ANDU.N 


THE    PAUPEirS    DRIVE. 

There's  a  grim  one-liorse  hearse  in  a  jolly  rotnid  trot: 
To  tlie  cliurchyard  a  pauper  is  goino;,   I   wot  ; 
The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has  no  springs; 
And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  mad  driver  sinos  : 

Rattle  Jus  bones  over  the  stones ! 

He's  only  a  pauper^  whom  nohody  oivns  ! 

O,  where  are  the  mourners  ?     Alas  !  there  are  none  : 
He  has  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world,  now  he's  gone  — 
Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man  ; 
To  the  grave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you  can. 

llattle  las  hones  over  the  stones! 

He''s  only  a  pauper^  whom  nobody  owns  ! 

What  a  jolting,  and  creaking,  and  splashing,  and  din  ! 
The  whip,  how  it  cracks!  and  the  wheels,  how  they  spin  I 
How  the  dirt,  rioht  and  left,  o'er  the  hedo;es  is  hurled  ! 
The  })auper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world. 

llattle  his  hones  over  the  stones! 

Hes  only  a  pauper^  whom  nobody  owns ! 

Poor  pauper  defunct  !  he  has   made  some  approach 
To  gentility,  now  that  he's  stretched  in  a  coach. 
He's  takino;  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last ; 
But  it  will  not  he  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast. 

Rattle  his  hones  over  the  stones  ! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  otn/.^ .' 


WiiMFRKDA. 

Yoii  l)uinj)kins,  who    stare   at  yoiu"  brotlier  conveyeil, 
Beliold   wliat  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  paid  I 
And  be  joytul  to  tlilidv,  wlien  by  death  you're  hiid  low, 
You've  a  chance  to  tlie  orave  like  a  iiemnian  to  o-o. 

liattle  Ids  hones  over  the  stones  ! 

Hes  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns! 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain  ;  for  my  soul  it  is  sad, 
To  thiid^  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  desolate  end, 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend  I 

Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

T/io'Kjh  a  jmuper,  he^s  one  zvhoin  his  3Iaker  yet  awns  ' 

Thomas  Noil. 


WIXIFIIKDA. 

Away  I  let  naught  to  love  displeasing, 
i\Iy  Winifreda,  move  yoiu*  care  ; 

Let  naught  delay  the  heavenly  blessing. 
Nor  squeamish  ]M'ide,  nor  gloomv  fear. 

What  though  no  grants  of  roval  donors 
With  pompous  titles  grace  our  blood  ; 

We'll  shine  in  more  substantial  honors. 
And  to  be  noble  Ave'll  b?  o-ood. 


WIXFFRKDA. 

Our  name,   wliile   virtue  thus  we  tender, 
Will  sweetly  sound  where'er  'tis  spoke  ; 

And  all   the  great  ones,   they  sliall   wonder 
How  they  respect  sncli  little  folk. 

What  thouoh  from  fortune's  lavish   l)onntv 

No  mighty  treasures  we  possess  ; 
We'll  find   within   our  pittance  ])lenty, 

And  be  content  without  excess. 

Still  sliall  each  kind  returning  season 

Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give  ; 
For  we  will  live  a  life  of  reason, 

And   that's  the  only  life  to  live. 

Through  youth   and  age  in   love  excelling, 
We'll  hand  in  hand  together  tread  ; 

Sweet-smiling  peace  shall   crown   our  dwelling, 
And  babes,  sweet-smiling  bal)es,   onr  bed. 

How  should   I   love  the  pretty  creatures. 
While  round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung. 

To  see  them  look  their  mother's  features, 
To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother's  tongue  ' 

And  when  with  envy,  Time,  transported. 

Shall  think  to  rob  ns  of  our  joys, 
Yon'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 

And  I'll  go  Avooing  in  my  boys. 

AXON'Y.MOCS 


INCIDENT   OF   THE   FRENCH   CAAU'. 


Yoi!   know   we   French  stonnod   Iiatishon. 

A  iiiile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  onr  stonning-dav  : 
10 


INCIDENT   OF  THE   FRENCH   CAMP.  Ij 

With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancv  how. 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind : 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

II. 
Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "  INly  plans. 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader,   Lannes, 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  Hevv 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

III. 
Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect, 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed. 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through,) 
You  looked  twice,  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

IV. 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon, 


!•_)  DEADXESS  IN  THE  COUXTRY. 

To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  1,  to  lieart's  desire, 
Perched  him  !  "     The  chief's  eye  flashed  :  his  j)lans 

Soared  iij)  aoain  like  fire. 

V. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 
"You're  wounded!"     "Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
"  I'm  killed,  sire  I  "     And,  his  chief  beside. 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

ROHKUT    BhOWNING. 


DEADNESS  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

Oh,  uo,  'twas  lifeless  here,  he  said, 
To  liiin  the  place  seemed  almost  dead, 
Stone-dead,  he  said,  but  why  so  dead, 
Oti  lauds  with  chirping  birds  on  wing. 
And  rooks  on  high,  witli  blackbirds  nigh. 
And  swallows  Avhecling  round  in  ring, 
An<l  fish  to  swim,  where  waters  roam, 
By  bridge  and  rock  to  fall  iii  foam. 

"Wn.i.iAM  Bakn'es. 


TOM  BOWLING. 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darling  of  our  crew ; 
No  more  he'll  hear  the  tempest  howling, 

For  Death  has  broached  him  to. 
His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty ; 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft ; 
Faithfiil  below,  he  did  his  duty ; 

But  now  he's  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed. 

His  wtues  were  so  rare ; 
His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted ; 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair. 
And  then  he'd  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly, 

Ah,  many's  the  time  and  oft ! 
But  mirth  is  turned  to  melancholy. 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather. 

When  He,  who  all  commands, 
Shall  give,  to  call  life's  crew  together, 

The  word  to  pipe  all  hands. 
Thus  Death,  who  kings  and  tars  despatches, 

In  vain  Tom's  life  has  doffed ; 
For,  though  his  body's  under  hatches, 

His  soul  is  crone  aloft. 

o 

Charles  Diuoin. 

13 


I. A   liELLE   DAME   SANS  MERCI. 


O  WHAT  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms  ! 

Alone,  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake^ 

And  no  birds  sing. 

II. 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms  I 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  sqnirrel's  granary  is  fidl. 
And  the  harvest  done. 

ni. 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow. 

With  angnish  moist  and  fever  dew  ; 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too. 

IV. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  mead, 
Fnll  beautifiil,  a  fairy's  child  ; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light. 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 
U 


I.A    BELLK    DAME    SANS   iMERCI.  15 


I  made  a  garland  for  lier  liead, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fi'agrant  zone  ; 

Slie  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

\i. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long  : 

For  sidelong  Avould  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faiiy  song. 

VII. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew  ; 

And  sure  in  lanffuase  strano;e  she  said, 
"  I  love  thee  true." 

VIII. 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot. 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sighed  full  sore  ; 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 

IX. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep  ; 

And  there  I  dreamed  —  Ah  !  woe  betide  ! 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamed 

On  the  cold  hill-side. 


16  THE  STRING  TOKEN. 


X. 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  pnnces  too, 

Pale  warriors  —  death-pale  were  they  all  ; 

They  cried,  "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Ilath  thee  in  thrall !  " 

XI. 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloani, 

With  hon-id  waniing  gaped  wide  ; 
And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here, 

On  the  cold  hill-side. 

XII. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering. 

Though  the  sedo;e  is  withered  fi-om  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

John  Keats. 

THE  STRING  TOKEN. 

"  If  I  am  gone  on,  you  will  find  a  small  string  " — 

"Were  her  words — "  on  this  twig  of  the  oak  l)y  the  spring." 

Oil !  gay  are  the  new-leaved  trees  in  the  spring, 

Down  under  the  height,  Avhere  the  skylark  may  sing ; 

And  welcome  in  siimmer  are  tree-leaves  that  meet 

On  wide-spi'eading  limbs,  for  a  screen  from  the  heat ; 

And  fair  in  the  fall-tide  may  flutter  the  few 

Yellow  leaves  of  the  trees  that  the  sky  may  shine  through. 

But  Avelcomer  far  than  the  leaves,  is  the  string 

On  the  twig  of  tlie  oak  by  the  spring. 

William  Baknes. 


THE    mniKJE    OF    SKillS. 

Qyv:  more   uiiiortuuntt', 
Weiiry   of  lireatli, 
Rashlv   iiuportuiuitt', 
Gone   to   her  deatli  I 


Take   her  ii})   tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ! 
Fasliioned  so  slenderly, 
Yoiino-,  and  so  fair  I 


IS  'i'l"';    ili;il)(iK    OF    SKillS. 

Look  at  Ikt  «;aniK'iit.s 
Cliiioiiio-  like  cerements, 
Wliilst  tlie  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  lier  ciotiiini;' ; 
Take   her  uj)  instantly, 
Lovini;-,  not  loatliing! 

Touch   her  not  scorn  full  v  ! 
Think  of  her  mournfullv. 
Gently  and   humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her  : 
All   that  remains  of  Jier 
Now  is  ])iu'e   womanly. 

Make  no  dee])  scrutiny 
Into  her  nuitiny, 
Rash   and  iui(hitiful  : 
Past  all  dishonor. 
Death  lias  left  on   her 
Only  the  beautifid. 

Still,  for  all  sli])s  of  hers. 
One  of  Eve's  family, 
Wipe  those  ])oor  lips  oj"  liers, 
Oozing  so  clannnily. 

Ijoop  up  her  tresses 
Esca])ed  from   tlie  comh. 
Her  fair  auhurn  tresses. 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 


THE   BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS. 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 

Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas,  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 
O,  it  was  pitiftil ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full. 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly. 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelino-s  had  changed  ; 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Tl^ro^vn  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged! 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement. 

From  garret  to  basement. 

She  stood,  with  amazement. 

Houseless  by  night. 


19 


20  TiiK  bridgp:  of  sighs. 

The  bleak  wind  of  ]\Iarcli 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver  ; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Kor  the  black  flowing  river ; 
"Mad  fi-om  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurled  — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly. 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, 
Over  the  brink  of  it  I 
Picture  it  —  think  of  it, 
Dissolute  man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  ch'ink  of  it 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  Avith  care ! 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs,  frigidly. 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently,  kindly. 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly ! 


BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS.  21 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely. 
Cold  inhumanity 
Burning  insanity 
Into  her  rest ! 
Cross  her  hands   humbly. 
As  if  praying  dumhly, 
Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  eyil  behayior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness. 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


M-J^. 


^   & 


i.'^^. 


THE   LAST    LEAF. 


1  SAW  liim  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door; 

And  arjain 
The  pavement-stones  resound 
As  lie  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  liis  cane. 

99 


THE   LAST   LEAF.  23 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruiiing-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Throuo;h  the  town. 

But  now  lie  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

So  forlorn  ; 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  presseil 

In  their  bloom  ; 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said, 
(Poor  old  lady  !  she  is  dead 

Long  ago,) 
That  he  had  a  Roman  nose. 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin. 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 
Like  a  staff; 


94  TO   ALTIIKA  — FROM  TRISON. 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 
In  liis  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here, 
But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches — and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  noAv, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

Olivkr  Wendp:ll  Holmes. 


TO   ALTHEA  — FROM  PRISON. 

When  Love,  with  unconfined  wings, 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  my  grates  ; 
AVlien  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 


TO    ALTIIEA— FROM    PRISON.  25 

The  birds,  that  -wanton  in  the  air, 
Know  no  such  hberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round. 

With  no  allajnng  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  rosos  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  Avine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  fi*ee, 
Fishes,  that  tipple  in  the  deep, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnet,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  king; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood. 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make. 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage. 
If  I  have  fi'eedom  in  my  love. 

And  in  my  soul  am  free. 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

RlCHAUD    LoVKLACR. 


IT  NEVER   COMES   AGAIN. 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain  : 

But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs. 

It  takes  somethino;  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better. 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign  ; 
Still,  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 

And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished. 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain  : 
We  behold  it  everywhere. 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 

But  it  never  comes  again. 

Richard  Hkxkv  Stoddakd 


26 


n;^-^^-^'*^^''«'4#-/ 


THE    AGE    OF    WISDO^NI. 

Ho  I   pretty  page,   with   the  dimpled   eliiii, 
Tliat  never  lias  known  the  barber's  shear 

All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win  ; 

This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin  : 
Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains  ; 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer  ; 
Siohino-,  and  sino-ino;  of  midnight  strains 
Under  Bonnybell's  window  panes: 

Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 


i>,S  riiK  A(;i-:  ok  wisdom 

Forty   times  over  let  JMicliaeluias   pass  ; 

Grizzling  liair  the  brain   dotli   elear ; 
Then   you   know   a   boy  is  an   ass, 
Then   you   know   tlie   wortli   of  a  lass, 

Once  you  ha\"e  come  to  forty  year. 

Pledoe  me   round  I    I    bid  ye  declare. 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  gray  : 
Did   not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow  and  wearisome,  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  ])ast  away  ? 

'I'he  reddest  lij)S  that  ever   have  kissed, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper  and  Ave  not  list. 
Or  look  away  and  never  be  missed, 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian's  dead!   God   rest  her  bier: 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne  ! 

Marian's  married  I  but  T  sit  here, 

Alone  and  mei-ry  at   forty  year. 

Dipping  my   nose   in   the   Gascon   wine. 

\\'lI,I.IAM   Makki'kack   Tiiacki;i{  av. 


YOUTH   AND   AGE. 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  strayino;, 
Wliere  Hope  clung  feeding  like  a  bee  ! 
Both  were  mine  ;  Life  went  a-Maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young. 

When  I  was  young  !  Ah,  woful    When ! 
Ah,  for  the  change  'twixt  Now   and  Then  ! 
This  breathing  house,  not  built  witli  hands, 
This  body,  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  airy  cliffs  and  glittering  sands 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along  ! 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  Avinding  lakes  and  rivers  wide. 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide. 
Naught  cared  this  body  foi   Avind  or  weather, 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely  ;  Love  is  flower-like  ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O  the  joys  that  came  down  shoAver-like. 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 
Ere  I  wns  old  ! 
2 'J 


30  YOUTH   AND    AGE. 

Ere  I  was  old!    Ah,  woful  Ere! 
A\'hich  tells  me  Youth's  no  longer  here. 

0  Youth  !     For  years  so  many  and  sweel 
"Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one  ; 
ril  think  it  hut  a  fond  conceit; 

It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-hell  liatli  not  yet  tolled, 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold. 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  tliese  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size  ; 
Hut  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips. 

And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes ! 
Life  is  but  thought ;  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 
Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  moumfnl  eve. 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old : 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking  leave  ; 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismissed. 
Yet  hath  outstayed  his  Avelcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

Samuel  Taylor  Colk.ridoe. 


TIIK    LOUKI.Kl. 

f  KNOW  lint  what  it  ])i'esau;es, 
This   lieart   with   sadness  frauuht  : 

"Tis  a  tale  of  tlie  olden  aux's, 
That  will   not  from   my   thoniiht. 

The  air  grows  cool,  and  darkles  ; 

The   Rhine  Hows  cahnly  on  ; 
The  mountain  summit  sjiarkles 

In   the  light  of  the  setting  sun. 

There  sits,   in  soft  reclining, 
A  maiden  wondrous  fair, 

Witli  golden  raiment  shining, 
And  combing  her  golden  hair. 

With  a  comb  of  gold  she  combs  it ; 

And  c(mibing,  low  singeth  she 
A  song  of  a  strange,  sweet  sadness, 

A  wonderful  melod}-. 

The  sailor  shudders,   as  o'er  him 
The  strain  comes  floating  by  ; 

He  sees  not  the  cliffs   before  him, 
He  onlv  looks  on   high. 
:U 


32 


WlTIlolT    AND    WITIIIX. 


All  I   rouiul  liiui   the  dark   waves,   Hiiin;ini:r 

Their  anus,   draw  liiiii  sh)\vlv  down  ; 
And   this,   witli   lier  wild,   sweet  sinLjing, 
'rh(>   Lorelei  has  done. 

I1kim:I(1I    IIkim:.     (Gcnnan  ) 
'I'rari.sl;ilioii  of  CiiHisioniEi:  I'eau.sk  Cr.ANCii. 


WITHOUT   AND    WITHIN. 


My  coachman,   in  tlie  moonlight  there. 

Looks  throngh   the  side-light  of  tlie  dooi- 
I   hear  him   with   his  Ijrethren   swear. 

As   I    could   do,  —  but    oulv   nioiv. 


WITHOUT    AND    WITHIN.  38 

Flattening  his  nose  against  tlie  pane, 

He  envies  me  my  brilliant  lot, 
Breathes  on  his  acliino-  fists  in   vain, 

And  dooms  me  to  a  place  more  hot. 

He  sees  me  to  the  supper  go, 

A  silken  wonder  by  my  side, 
Bare  arms,  bare  shoulders,  and  a  row 

Of  flounces,  for  the  door  too  wide. 

He  thuiks  how  hapjiy  is  my  arm, 

'Neath  its  white-gloved  and  jewelled  load, 

And  wishes  me  some  dreadful  harm, 
Hearing  the  merry  corks  explode. 

Meanwhile  I  inly  curse  the  bore 

Of  hunting  still  the  same  old  coon, 
And  envy  him,  outside  the  door, 

In  golden  quiets  of  the  moon. 

The  winter  wind  is  not  so  cold 

As  the  bright  smiles  he  sees  me  win, 
Nor  the  host's  oldest  wine  so  old 

As  oui*  poor  gabble  —  watery,  thin. 

I  envy  him  the  ungyved  prance 

By  which  his  freezing  feet  he  warms. 
And  di-ag  my  lady's-chains  and  dance. 

The  galley-slave  of  dreary  forms. 


u 


Slli    TATltHMv    SI>1:NS. 


C),  could   lie  have  itiv  slinre  of  din. 

And   I   his  qniet  I — past  a  doubt 
'Twould  still   be  one  man   bored  witliin. 

And   just  another  boi-ed    without. 

JaMKS      Rl'SSKI,!,     I.oWII.I, 


Sill   PATRICK    SPENS. 


The   kiuii  sits   in   Dunfermline  town, 

Drinking  the  blude-red   wine  : 
"  O  where  will   I   o-et  a  skeely  skipper, 


To  sail    this   new  ship   o     mme  ! 


9  *" 


SIR  PATKJCK    SPENS.  35 

O  up  and   spak    an   eldem  kniglit, 

Sat  at  the  king's  rio;ht  knee : 
"  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailer 

That  ever  sailed  tlie  sea." 


Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter. 

And  sealed  it  wi'  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walkino;  on  the  sand. 

"  To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 

To  Noroway  o'er  the  fiiem  ! 
The  king's  daughter  of  NoroAvay, 

'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame."' 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

Sae  loud,  loud  laughed  he  ; 
The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

The  tear  blindit  his  e'e. 

"  O !  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

And  tauld  the  king  o'  me. 
To  send  us  out  at  this  time  o'  the  year. 

To  sail  upon  the  sea  ? 

"  Be  it  wind,  be  it  Aveet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet, 

Oiu'  ship  maun   sail  tlie  faem  ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway. 

'Tis  we  maun  fetch  her  hame.' 


36  «ifi  PATRICK  spi:ns. 

They  lioysed  their  sails  on  Monenday  rnorn, 
Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may ; 

They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 
Upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week, 

In  Noroway  hut  twae, 
When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway 
Besan  aloud  to  sav  : 


"  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  king's  gowd. 

And  a'  our  queenis  fee." 
"  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud  I 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie  ! 

"  For  I  hae  brought  as  luickle  white  monie 

As  gane  my   men  and  me; 
And  I  hae  brouglit  a  half-fou  o'  gude  red  fiowd 

Out  owre  the  sea  wi'  me. 


"  Mak  ready,  mak  ready,  my  merry  men  a'  I 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  mom." 
"  Now,  ever  alake  !  my  master  dear  ; 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm  ! 

'■'  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen. 

Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm  : 
And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 

I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm." 


SIK   rATKICK   SPENS.  S7 

They  hadiia  siiiled  a  league,   a  league, 

A  league,  but  barely  three. 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud, 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak  and  the  topmasts  lap. 

It  Avas  sic  a  deadly  storm  ; 
And  the  waves  cam  owre  the  broken  shij) 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 

"  O  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 

To    tak   my  helm  in  hand, 
Till  I  gae  iip  to  the  tall  topmast, 

To  see  if  I  can  spy  land  ?  " 

"  O  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude. 

To   tak    the   helm  in  hand, 
Till  you  gae  up  to  the  tall  topmast ; 

But  I  fear   ye'll   ne'er  spy  land." 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step,  but  barely  ane. 
When  a  boidt  flew  out  of  our  goodly  ship, 

And  the  saut  sea  it  cam  in. 


"  Gae  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Anither   o'  the  twine. 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side. 

And  letna  tlie  sea  come  in." 


3S  SIR   PATRICK    SRENS. 

They  fetched  a  web  o'  tlie  silken  chiitli, 

Anither   o'  the  twine, 
And  they  wapped  tliem    into    that   gude  ship's  side 

But  still  tlie  sea  cam  in. 


O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords, 
To  weet  their  milk-white  hands ! 

But  lang  or  a'   the  play  was  played 
They  Avat  their  gowden  bands. 

O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 
To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon  ! 

But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  played, 
They  Avat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather-bed 

That  floated  on  the  faem  ; 
And  mony  Avas  the  gude  lord's  son 

That  never  mair  cam  hanie. 

The  ladyes  wrang  their  fingers  white. 
The  maidens  tore  their  hair, 

A'  for  the  sake  of  their  tnie  loves  ; 
For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladyes  sit, 
WV  their  fans  in  their  hand, 

Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailino;  to  the  strand  I 


AN    ANGEL    IN    THE    HOUSE.  39 

And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens   sit, 

Wi'  their  gowd  kaims  in  their  hair, 
A'  waiting  for  tlieir  ain  dear  loves; 

For  them  tliey'll  see  nae  mair. 

Half-owre,  half-owre  to  Aberdonr 

'Tis  fifty  fathom  deej), 
And  there  Hes  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spen.s, 

Wi'  the  Scots  h)rds  at  liis  feet. 

A.NO.NI  .MOUS. 


AN  an(;el  in  the  house. 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  friglit, 

Or  dying  of  the  dreadful   beauteous  sight, 

An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 

To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 

At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 

His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowei's 

News  of  dear  friends,   autl  children   who   have  never 

Been  dead  indeed  —  as  we  shall   know  f()re\'er. 

Alas  !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 

About  our  hearths  —  angels,  that  are  to  be, 

Or  may  be  if  they  will,   and   we  ))rei)are 

Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  hapi)y  air : 

A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart  sings 

In  imison   with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. 

IjKiuh   Hunt. 


THE   MERRY    CHASbEUR 


O,  a  gallant  sans-peur 

Is  the  merry  cliasseur, 

With  his  t'anfaron   horn,  and  his  rifle,  i)ing-[(an^  ! 

And  his  grand  haversack 

Of  gold  on  his  back  : 

40 


THE  MERRY  CHASSEUR.  41 

His  pistol,  cric-crac  ! 

And  his  sword,  clinrr-clanir ! 

O,  to  see  liim  blitlie  and  gay 

From  some  hot  and  bloody  day. 
Come  to  dance  the  night  away  till  the  bngle  blows  "  an  rang  I  "' 

With  a  wheel  and  a  whirl, 

And  a  wheelino-  walt/,in<x  sii'b 
And  his  bow,  "  place  aux  dames  !  "  and  his  oath,  "  ten  et  sang  I  " 

And  his  hop  and  his  fling, 

Till  his  gold  and  silver  ring 
To  the  clatter  and  the  clash  of  his  sword,  cling-clang  ! 

But  hark  ! 

Through  the  dark 

Up  goes  the  Avell-known  shout ! 

The  drums  beat  the  turn-out ! 

Cut  short  your  courting,  Monsieur  I'Amant ! 

Saddle  !  mount !  march  !  trot ! 

Down  comes  the  storm  of  shot ! 

The  foe  is  at  the  charo;e  !     En  avant ! 

His  jolly  haversack 

Of  o-old  is  on  his  back  ; 

Hear  his  pistol,  cric-crac  !  hear  liis  rifle,  ping-pang  ! 

Vive  I'Empereur ! 

And  where' s  the  chasseur  ? 

He's  in 

Amona:  the  din, 

Steel  to  steel  —  cling-clang! 

Sydnky  Dohkli. 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    SIHIIT. 


With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A   woman   sat,   in   nnwonianly  rags. 
Plying  her  needle  and   thread  : 
Stitch,  stitch,  stitch  ! 

In   j)()vertv.   hnnger,  and   dirt  : 


44  THE   SONG    OF   THE   SHHIT. 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  saner  the  "  Sono;  of  the  Shirt ! " 

"  Work,  work,  work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof; 
And  work,  work,  work ! 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof. 
It's  O !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  sovil  to  save, 

If  this  is  Clu'istian  work  ! 

"  Work,  work,   work, 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ! 
Work,  work,  work. 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam; 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleej), 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ! 

"  O   men,  with  sisters  dear  ! 

O    men,  with  mothers  and  Avives  ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  weai'ing  out. 

But  human  ci'eatures'  lives ! 
Stitch,  stitch,  stitch. 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
Sewino;  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  Avell  as  a  shirt ! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death, 
That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    SHIRT.  41 

I  hardly  fear  liis  terrible  shape, 

It  seeins  so  like  my  own  ; 
It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 
O  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  Hesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

"  Work,  work,  work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  Avages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  flooi-, 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  ; 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

*'  Woi'k,  work,  work. 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  ! 
Work,  work,  Avork, 

As  pi'isoners  work  for  crime  ! 
Band,  and  gusset,   and  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band  ; 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed. 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"  Work,  work,  work, 

In  the  dull  December  light ! 
And  work,  work,  work. 

When  the  weather  is  wann  and  bright ! 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling. 


4G  THE    SONG   OF   THE   SHHIT. 

As  if  to  sliow  me  their  sunny  backs. 
And  twit  me  with  tlio  Spring. 

"  O  !  but  to  breathe  tlie  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  pi-imrose  sweet. 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  tlie  grass  beneatli  my  feel  ! 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want. 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal 

*'  O  !  but  for  one  short  hour, 

A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  iieart ; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !  " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unAvomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread. 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  I 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch. 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  ! 

She  sano;  this  "  Sono;  of  the  Shirt !  " 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE    CHARGE    OF    THE   LlCxHT   BRIGADE 

AT    BAI-AKL.VVA. 

Half  a  k'a<j;iie,  lialf  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death, 

llode  the  Six  Hundred. 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  Six  Hundred  ; 

For  up  came  an  order  which 
Some  one  had  blundered. 

"  Forward,  tlie  Liglit  Brigade  ! 

Take  the  guns  !  "  Nolan  said  ; 

Into  the  valley  of  Death, 
Rode  tlie  Six  Hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !  " 
No  man  was  there  dismayed. 
Not  though  the  soldiers  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  ; 
Into  the  valley  of  Death, 

Rode  the   Six   Hundred. 
47 


48 


"UK    CMAIKiK    OF     ['HE    LKIHT    HRIGADK 


Cannon   to   riu'lit  of  tlieni, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  at  witli  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  tlu>y   rode  and   well  : 
Into  the  jaws  of  Deatli, 
Into  the  mouth   of  Hell, 

Ivixle   tlie   Six    Hundred. 


Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare. 
Flashed  all  at  once  in  air. 


THE    CHARGE   OF    THE    LIGHT   BRIGADE.  49 

Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke, 
With  many  a  desperate  stroke 
The  Russian  line  they  broke  • 
Then  they  rode  back  —  but  not, 

Not  the  Six  Hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  behind  them. 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
Those  that  had  foiight  so  well 
Came  from  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them. 

Left  of  Six  Hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O !  the  wild  charge  they  made  I 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  I 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  Six  Hundred  ! 

Al.KKKD    TkNN  VSOX. 


SONG   OF   THE   SILENT  LAND 

Into  the  Silent  Land  I 
Ah !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 
Clouds  in   the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand  ; 
Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Thither,  O  thither  ! 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection,  tender  morning- visions 
Of  beauteous  souls,  the  Future's  pledge  and  band  ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

O  Land!   O  Land! 
For  all  the  broken-hearted, 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand, 
To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed. 
Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

JoHAXN  Gaudknz  VOX  Sai.is.     (German.) 
Transljition  of  Hexhy  \Vai>s\vokth  I,ongfei-lo\v, 

50 


THE   ONE   GRAY   HAIR. 

The  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies, 

And  love  to  hear  thein  told ; 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listened  to  many  a  one : 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew  old. 

I  never  sat  among 

The  choir  of  Wisdom's  song, 

But  pretty  lies  loved  I 
As  much  as  any  king : 
When  youth  was  on  the  wing, 
And  (must  it  then  be  told?}  when  youth  had  quite  gone   by. 

Alas !  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot. 

When  one  pert  lady  said 
"  O  Landor  !  I  am  quite 
Bewildered  with  affright : 
I  see  Tsit  quiet  now !)  a  white  hair  on  your  head  !  " 

Another,  more  benign. 
Drew  out  that  hair  of  mine, 
And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
51 


52  THE  SHEPHERD'S  RESOLUTION. 

Pretended  she  had  found 
That  one,  and  twirled  it  round : 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair. 

Walter  Savagk  Landx)r 


THE   SHEPHERD'S  RESOLUTION. 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die,  because  a  woman's  fair  ? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care, 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  "^ 

Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ? 
Or  a  well-disposed  nature 
Joined  Avith  a  lovely  feature  ? 
Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican. 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  well-deservings  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 


THE    OLD    CONTINENTALS. 

Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 

Which  may  merit  name  of  best, 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
Wliat  care  I  how  good  she  be? 

'Cause  lier  fortune  seems  too  liigh. 

Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 

Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind 

Where  they   want  of  riches  find 

Think  wliat  Avith  them   they  would  do 

That  without  them  dare  to  woo  ; 
And  unless  that  nn'nd  I  see, 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be  ? 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 

I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair. 

If  siie  love  me,  this  believe : 

I  Avill  die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 

I  can  scorn,  and  let  her  go  ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me. 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 

Georgk  Witiikr 


THE   OLD   CONTINENTALS 

In  their  ragged  reo-imentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not. 
While  the  grenadiers  were  hinging, 


53 


54  THE    OLD   CONTINENTALS. 

And  like  hail  fell  tlie  plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 
When  the  files 
Of  the  Isles, 
From    the    smoky    night-encampment,    bore    the   banner   of  the    ram- 
pant 

Unicorn ; 
And  grunnner,  grummer,  grummer,  rolled  the   .oil  of  the  drummer. 
Through  the  morn  ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal. 

Stood  our  sires ; 
While  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly. 
Blazed  the  fires ; 
As  the  roar 
On  the  shore. 
Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green-sodded  acres 

Of  the  plain  ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder,  cracked  the  black  gunpowder, 
Cracking  amain  I 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoneers ; 
And  the  "villainous  saltpetre'" 
Rang  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 

Round  our  ears. 

As  the  avni't 

Storm-drift, 


THE    OLD    CONTINENTALS. 


;i;) 


With  hot  sweephig  anger,  came  the  liorse-guarcls'  chuigor 

On   our  flanks  ; 
Tlion  liigher,  higlier,  higher,  burned  tlie  okl-fasliiouL'tl  fire 

Tln-(jugh   the  ranks  I 


Then  the  bareheaded  Cohjnel 
Galloped  through   the  white  inCei'iial 

Powder-cloud  : 
And   his  broadsword    w:is  swiiiging, 


;")(; 


THE   OLD   CONTLVENTALS. 


And  his  brazen  tliroat  was  ringing, 
Trumpet-luiid. 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 
And  the  trooper-jackets  reddened  at  the  touch  of  the  leaden 

Rifle-breath  ; 
And   rounder,   rounder,   rounder,   roared  the  iron   six-pounder, 
Hiu'ling  death  ! 

GiiY  IIltmi'iikky  McMasikk. 


NAPOLEON   AND    THE    BRITISH    SAH^Oll 

1  LO^■E  contemplating,  apart 

From  all  his  homicidal  glory. 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 
Napoleon's  story. 

'Twas  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 

Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 
His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him,  I  know  not  how, 
Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam  ; 
And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks,  pursued  the  flight 
Of  birds,  to  Britain  half-way  over, 
With  envy  —  they  could  reach  the  white, 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dealer, 
Tf  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 
57 


58  NArOLEOX    AND    THE    BRITISH    SAILOR. 

■  At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning  —  dreaming  —  dotini 
An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating; 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 

The  livelong  day  laborious;  lurking. 
Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat, 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  'twas  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched  ;  such  a  wlierry 
Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  crossed  a  feny. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt-sea  field. 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder  . 
Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled; 
No  sail  —  no  rudder. 


From  neiffhborino;  woods  he  interlaced 

His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows  ; 
And,  thus  equipjied,  he  Avould  have  ]iass;ed 
The  foaming  billows. 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 

His  little  Argo  sorely  jeering  ; 
Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 
Napoleon's  hearing. 


NAPOLEON    AND    THE    BRITISH    SATT/)R. 

With  folded  arms  Nai)oleon  stood, 

Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger  ; 
And,  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Addressed  the  stranger : 

"  Rash  man,  that  would'st  yon  channel  })asa 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashioned  ! 
Thy  heart  with  some  sweet   British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"  I   have  no  sweetheart,"   said  the  hul  ; 

"  But,  absent  long  from  one  another. 
Great  was  the  longing  that   I   had 
To  see  my  motlier.  ' 

"  And  so   tliou  shalt,"   Napoleon   said  : 
"  Ye've  I)oth   mv  favor  fairly   won  ; 
A   noble  mother  nnist  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 

And,   with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 
He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 

To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty  ; 
But  never  changed  the  coin   and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte. 


'J'ilOMAS    C'AMritKI.L. 


THE   FORGING   OF   THE   ANCHOR. 


Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged  !  'tis  at  a  white  heat  now  : 
The    bellows    ceased,  the    flames    decreased ;    though,  on    the    forge' 
brow, 

60 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR.  Gl 

Tlie  little  flames  still  fitfully  pLiy  through  the  sable  mound, 

And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking  round  ; 

All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only  bare. 

Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  woi'k  the  windlass  thei-c. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle-chains  —  the  black  mould  heaves  below  ; 

And,  red  and  deep,  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every  throe. 

It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O,  Vulcan!  what  a  glow! 

'Tis  blinding  white,  'tis  blasting  brio;lit — the  liio;h  sun  shines  not  so! 

The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery,  fearful  show  ! 

The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy  lurid  row 

Of  smiths,  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before  the  foe  ! 

As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  sailing  monster  slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil  —  all  about,  the  faces  fiery  grow. 

"  Hurrah  !  "    they    shout,    "  leap    out,    leap    out !  "    bang,   bang !    the 

sledges  go  ; 
Huri-ah  !  the  jetted  lightnijigs  are  hissing  high  and  low  ; 
A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing  blow  ; 
The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail  ;  the  rattling  cinders  strow 
The  ground  around  ;  at  every  bound  the  sweltering  fountains  flow  : 
And,    thick    and    loud,    the    swinking    crowd    at    every    stroke    i)ant 

"ho!" 
Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters  !  leap  out,  and  lay  on  load  ! 
Let's  forge  a  goodly  anchor — a  bower  thick  and  broad  ; 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I  bode  ; 
And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a  perilous  road: 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee  ;  the  roll  of  ocean  poured 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea ;  the  mainmast  by  the  board  ; 
The  bidwarks  down;  the  rudder  gone;  the  boats  stove  at  the  chains; 
But  courage  still,  brave  mariners  —  the  bower  yet  remains! 
And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns  —  save  Avlien  ye  pitch  sky  high; 
Then    moves    his    head,  as    though    he    said,    "Fear  nothing  —  here 

I!  " 


62  THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order!  let  foot  and  hand  keej)  time; 

Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than   anv   stt'e])le"s  chime. 

But  while  ye  swing  your  sledges,  sing ;  and  let  the  burden  be, 

The  anchor  is   the   anvil-king,  and  royal  craftsmen  we  ! 

Strike  in,  strike  in  I  —  the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their  nistling  red; 

Our  liammers  ring  with  sharper  din  —  our  work  will  soon  be  sped  : 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery  rich  array 

For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy  couch  of  clay  ; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry  craftsmen  here 

For  the  yeo-heave-o,  and  the    lieave-aAvay,  and  the   sighing  seamen's 

cheer, 
When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go,  far,  far  from  love  and  home ; 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail  o'er  the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom,  he  darkens  down  at  last ; 

A.  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e'er  from  cat  was  cast. 

O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard  !  if  thou  hadst  life  like  me, 

What  |)leasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the  deep   green  sea  ! 

O  deep-sea  diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights  as  thou  ? 

The  hoary  monster's  palaces  !  —  Methinks  what  joy  'twere  now 

To  go  ])lumb-plunging  down,  amid  the  assembly  of  the  whales. 

And  feel    the    churned    sea   round    me    boil    beneath    their    scourging 

tails  ! 
Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea-unicorn, 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his  ivory  hoi'ii  ; 
To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade  forlorn  ; 
And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark,  to  laugh  his  jaws  to  scorn  ; 
To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's  back,  where  'mid  Norwegian  isles 
He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallowed  miles, 
Till,  snorting  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  r(^lls ; 
Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the  far  astonished  shoals 


THE    FORGING    OF   THE    ANCHOR.  Qg 

Of  his  back-browsiiig  ocean-calves ;  or,  haply,  in  a  cove 
Shell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some   Undine's  love. 
To  find  the  long-haired  niermaidens  ;  or,  hard  by  icy  lands, 
To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean  sands. 

O  broad-armed  fisher  of  the  deep  !  whose  sports  can  equal  thine  ? 
The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons  that  tugs  thy  cable  line  ; 
And  night  by  night  'tis  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by  day. 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white  the  giant  game  to  play. 
But,  sliamer  of  our  little  sports,  forgive  the  name  I  gave  : 
A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy  —  thine  office  is  to  save. 
O  lodirer  in  the  sea-kino-s'  halls  I  couldst  thou  but  understand 
Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side  —  or  who  that  dripping  band, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round  about  thee  bend, 
With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream  blessing  their  ancient  friend  ! 
O,    couldst   thou    know  what    heroes    glide    with    larger    steps    round 

thee. 
Thine    iron    side  would    swell  with    pride  —  thou 'dst    leap   within  the 

sea  ! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleasant  strand 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  fatherland. 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  churchyard  grave 

So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  Avave  ! 

O,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly  sung. 

Honor  him  for  their  memory  whose  bones  he  goes  among  I 

Samukl  Ferguson. 


fyOUC 


SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he : 
'^^^:s^'^y/^^\      I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all 

I  '-  ^?  V'  A I  /u"^-^^ "  •  tln-ee  ; 

''  Good    speed !  "    cried    the    watch    as    the 

gate-bolts  undrew ; 
"Speed!"    echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping 

through. 
Beiiind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sunk  to 

rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


Not  a  word  to  each  other !  we  kept  the  great  pace. 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place 
I  tuiTied  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths   tight. 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit ; 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  Avliit. 

'Twas  a  moonset  at  starting ;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew,  and  twilight  dawned  clear  ; 
At  Boom  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 

(35 


(^(5  IIUW  THEY    liKULGHT   THE    GUOD 

At  DLiffcld  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  lialt-cliime  : 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with  "  Yet  there  is  time  I  " 

At  Aerschot  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  smi, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black,  every  one, 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past ; 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper,  Roland,  at  last, 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  ri\'er  headland  its  spray  ; 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  its  own  master,  askance  ; 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes,  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt  Dirck  groaned ;  and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay  spur  ! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely  —  the  fault's  not  in  her; 
We'll  remember  at  Aix  "  —  for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck,  and  staggering  knees. 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank. 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky  ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh  ; 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle,  bright  stubble  like  chaff: 

Till   over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white. 

And  "Gallop!"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight! 


MEWS   FROM  GHENT   TO    A IX. 


67 


"How  tliey'll  greet  us!"  —  and  all   in  a  moment  his  roan, 
Rolled  neck  and  ci'oup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  wliich  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  fvdl  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buflP-coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear. 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  })eer, 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good  ; 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  round, 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground  ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine. 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 

Which   (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Glient. 

llOIJEUT    BkuWXI.NG. 


ill  I  pain  •«^,.Wi;?."  ■  If'^r.is^  M 


NO   MORE. 

No  more  !  a  harp-string's  deep  and  breaking  tone, 
A  last  low  summer  breeze,  a  far-off  swell, 

A  dying  echo  of  rich  music  gone, 

Breathe  through  those  words,  those  murnuu-s  of  farewell 

No  More! 

To  dwell  in  peace,  with  home-affections  bound, 
To  know  the  sweetness  of  a  mother's  voice, 

To  feel  the  spirit  of  her  love  around, 
And  in  the  blessing  of  her  eye  rejoice. 

No  moi'e  ! 

A  dirse-like  sound  !  —  to  creet  the  early  friend 
Unto  the  hearth,  his  place  of  many  days  ; 

In  the  glad  song  with  kindred  lips  to  blend, 
Or  join  the  household  laughter  by  the  blaze, 

No  more  ! 

Thi'ough  woods  that  shadowed  our  first  years  to  rove. 

With  all  our  native  music  in  the  au* ; 
To  watch  the  sunset  with  the  eyes  we  love. 

And  turn  and  read  our  own  heart's  answer  there, 

No  more ! 
68 


NO    MOKE.  (-59 

Words  of  despair  !  yet  Earth's,  all  Earth's,  the  woe 

Their  passion  breathes,  the  desolately  deep ! 
That  sound  in  Heaven  —  O  !  imajre  then  the  flow 

Of  gladness  in  its  tones  —  to  part,  to  weep, 

No  more ! 

To  watch,  in  dying  hope,  affection's  wane, 

To  see  the  beautifid  from  hfe  depart. 
To  wear  ini})atiently  a  secret  chain, 

To  waste  the  untold  riches  of  the  heart, 

No  more  I 

Tlu'ough  long,  long  years  to  seek,  to  strive,  to  yearn 
For  Imman  love,  and  never  quench  that  thirst ; 

To  pour  the  soul  out,  winning  no  return, 
O'er  fragile  idols,  by  delusion  nursed. 

No  more ! 

On  tilings  that  fail  us,  reed  by  reed,  to  lean  ; 

To  mourn  the  changed,  the  far  away,  the  dead ; 
To  send  oiu'  troubled  spirits  through  the  unseen. 

Intensely  questioning  for  treasures   fled. 

No  more  ! 

Words  of  triumphant  music  !  Bear  we  on 

The  weight  of  life,   the  cliain,  the  ungenial   air  : 

Their  deathless  meaning,   when  our  tasks  are  done, 
To  learn  in  joy  —  to  struggle,  to  despair. 

No  more  ! 

Fklicia   DoKoiiiKA   IIkmans. 


K()RXER'S   SWORD    SONG, 

COMPl.KTF.n    ONK    HOUR    nKKOUK    HE    FELL    ON    THE    ISATTI.K -KIKI.I). 
AUG.    20,    1813. 


[[.^  ,    Y'-^^WORD  at  my  left  side  gleaming 
*'^*1/^  S^fei.  ^Vllv  is  tliv  keen  glance,  beaming, 


So  fondly  bent  on  mine  ? 
I  love  that  smile  of  thine  I 

Ilun-nli  : 

•^  Borne  by  a  trooper  daring, 
Mv  looks  his  fire-glance  weai'ing, 
T  arm  a  freeman's  hand  : 
This  well   delights  thy  brand  I 
Hurrah  ! 

Ay,   good   sword,   free   I    wear  thee  ; 
And,  tiuie  lieart's  love,   I  bear  thee, 
I>eti"othed  one,  at  my  side. 
As  mv   dear,  chosen   bride  ! 

HurrMh  ! 


■•'  'J'o   thee   till    (k'nth   united. 
Thy  steeks  bright   life  is  ])iiglite(l  ; 
Ah,   wei'e  my   love  but  tried  I 
When   wilt  thou   wed  thy  bride  ? 
Hurrah  !  ' 
70 


KORNER'S    SWORD    SONG.  71 

The  trumpet's  festal  warning 
Shall   liail   our  bridal   niornino;  : 

Wlien  loud  the  cannon  chide, 

Tlien  clasp  I  m>^  loved  bride  I 
Hurrah  ! 

*'  O  joy,  when  thine  arms  hold  me ! 
T  pine  imtil  they  fold  me. 

Come  to  me  !  bridegroom,  come  I 

Thine  is  my  maiden  bloom. 

Hurrah!" 

Why,  in  tliy  sheath   upsprinoing. 
Thou  wild,  dear  steel,  art  ringing? 

Why  clanging  with  delight. 

So  eager  for  the  fight  ? 

Hurrah  ! 

"  Well  may  thy  scabbard  rattle  : 
Trooper,  I  pant  for  battle  ; 

Right  eager  for  the  fight, 

T  clang  with  wild  delight. 

Hurrah  I  " 

Why  thus,  my  love,  forth  creeping? 
Stay  in  thy  chamber,  sleeping ; 

Wait  still,  in  the  narrow  room  : 

Soon  for  my  bride  I  come. 

Hurndi  I 


KURNEK'S   SWORD   SONG. 

"  Keep  me  not  longer  pining ! 

O  for  Love's  garden,  shining 
With  roses  bleeding  red, 
And  bloomins:  with  the  dead  ! 

Hurruli  I   " 

Come  from  thy  sheath,  then,  treasnre ! 
Tliou  trooper's  true  eye-pleasure  ! 

Come  forth,  my  good  sword,  come ! 

Enter  tliy  father-home  ! 

Hurra]  1  ! 


^  ILi  I  in  the  free  air  glancing. 
How  brave  this  bridal  dancing ! 

How,  in  the  sun's  glad  beams. 
Bride-like,  thy  bright  steel  gleams 


Hurrah  I  " 

Come  on,  ye  German  horsemen  ! 
Come  on,  ye  valiant  Norsemen  ! 

Swells  not  your  hearts'  warm  tide  ? 

Clasp  each  in  hand  his  britle  ! 
Hurrah  ! 

Once  at  your  left  side  sleejnng. 
Scarce  her  veiled  glance  forth  peeping  ; 
Now,  wedded  with  your  right, 
God  plights  your  bride  in  the  light. 
Hurrah  ! 


IvOUNER'S    SWORD    60N(;. 

Then  press  with  wann  caresses, 

Close  lips  and  bridal  kisses, 

Your  steel ;  —  cursed  be  his  head 
Who  fails  the  bride  he  wed ! 

Hurrah  ! 

Now,  till  your  swords  flash,  flinging 
Clear  sparks  forth,  wave  them  singing. 

Day  dawns  for  bridal  i)ride  ; 

Hurrali,  thou  iron  bride ! 

Hurrah  ! 


78 


Kakl  Thkodou  Kouxku.     (Gennaii.) 


Tiauslation  of  Wu.uam  B.  Ciiorley. 


LITTLE   AND   GREAT. 


A  TliAVKi.i.F.u,   t]irou<:h  a   dusty   road, 
Strewed  acorns  on  the  lea  ; 


LITTLE  AND  GREAT.  75 

And  one  took  root  and  sprouted  up, 

And  grew  into  a  tree. 
Love  sought  its  sliade  at  evening  time, 

To  breathe  his  early  vows; 
And  Age  was  pleased,  in  heats  of  noon. 

To  bask  beneath  its  boughs. 
The  (Jormovtse  loved  its  dangling  twigs, 

The  birds  sweet  music  bore  ; 
It  stood  a  glory  in  its  place, 

A  blessing  evermore. 

A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way 

Amid  the  grass  and  fern  ; 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well. 

Where  weaiy  men  might  ttu-n. 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care 

A  ladle  at  the  brink  : 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did. 

But  judged  that  Toil  might  drink. 
He  passed  again  —  and  lo  !  the  well, 

By  summers  never  dried. 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parching  tongues, 

And  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  dreamer  dropped  a  I'andom  thought ; 

'Twas  old  —  and  yet  'twas  new  . 
A  simple  fancy  of  the  brain, 

Jiut  strong  in  being  true. 
It  shone  upon  a  genial  mind. 

And   lo  !   its  lioht  became 


7G  LITTLE  AND  GREAT. 

.V  ];imp  of  life,  a  beacon  ray, 

A  nionitoiy  flame. 
The  thought  was  small  —  its  issue  great  : 

A  watch-fire  on  the  hill, 
It  sheds  its  radiance  far  adown. 

And  cheers  the  valley  still. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd 

That  thronged  the  daily  mart. 
Let  fall  a  word  of  hope  and  love. 

Unstudied,  fi-om  the  heart. 
A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, 

A  transitory  breath. 
It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust, 

It  saved  a  soul  from  death. 
O  germ  !  O  fount !  O  word  of  love  ! 

O  thouo;ht  at  random  cast ! 
Ye  Avere  but  little  at  the  first. 

But  mighty  at  the  last ! 

Chaui.ks  Mackav. 


THE  RIVER   TIME. 

O  !    a   wonderful  stream  is  the  River  Time, 

As  it  runs  through  the  reahn  of  tears, 
With  a  faultless  rhythm  and  a  musical  rhyme, 
And  a  broader  sweep  and  a  surge  sublime. 

As  it  blends  with  the  ocean  of  Years. 

How  the  winters  are  drifting,  like  flakes  of  snow. 

And  the  summers,  like  buds  between. 
And  the  year  in  the  sheaf — so  they  come  and  they  go, 
On  the  river's  breast,  with  its  ebb  and  its  flow, 

As  it  glides  in  the  shadow  and   sheen. 

There's  a  magical  isle  up  the  River  Time, 

Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  playing  ; 
There's  a  cloudless  sky  and  a  tropical  clime, 
And  a  song  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime. 

And  the  Junes  with  the  roses  are  staying. 

And  the  name  of  the  isle  is  the  Long  Ago, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there ; 
There  are  brows  of  beauty,  and  bosoms  of  snow  ; 
They  are  heaps  of  dust  —  but  we  loved  them  so  I 

There  are  trinkets,  and  tresses  of  hair. 


78  (ilVE   xME    THE    OLD. 

There  are  fragments  of  song  that  nobody  sings, 

And  a  part  of  an  infant's  prayer  ; 
There's  a  lute  unswept,  and  a  harp  without  strings  ; 
There  are  broken  vows,  and  pieces  of  rings. 

And  the  garments  tliat  She  used  to  wear. 

There  are  hands  that  ai'e  waved,  when  the  fairy  shore 

By  the  mirage  is  Hfted  in  air  ; 
And  we  sometimes  hear,  through  the  turbulent  roar. 
Sweet  voices  we  heard  in  the  days  gone  before, 

When  the  wind  down  the  river  is  fair. 

O  !  remembered  for  aye   be  the  blessed  isle. 

All  the  day  of  our  life  till  night ; 
When  the  evening  comes  with  its  beautiful   smile. 
And  our  eyes  are  closing  to  slumber  awhile, 

May  that  "  Greenwood  "  of  Soul  be  in  sight ! 

Benjamin  Franklin  Taylor. 


GIVE  ME   THE    OLD 

OLD    WINK     TO     OKINK,     OLD    WOOD    TO     BURN,    OLD     BOOKS     TO     HEAD,     AND     OLD 
FRIENDS    TO    CONVERSE    WITH. 

1. 

Old  wine  to  drink  ! 
Ay,  give  the  slippery  juice 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose 
Within  the  tun  : 


GIVE  ME   THE   OLD.  79 

Plucked  from  beneatli  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 

And  ripened  'neatli  the  blink 

Of  India's  sun  ! 

Peat  whiskey  hot, 
Tempered  with  well-boiled  water  ! 
These  make  the  lono;  night  shorter  ; 

Foro-ettino;  not 
Good  stout  old  English  porter. 

II. 

Old  wood  to  burn  ! 
Ay,  bring  the  hill-side   beech 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and  screech 

And  ravens  croak ; 
The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet; 
Bring  too  a  clump  of  fi-agrant  peat, 
Dug  'neath  the  fern  ; 

The  knotted  oak, 

A  fagot  too,  perhap, 
Whose  bright  flame,  dancing,  winking, 
Shall  light  ns  at  our  drinkincr; 

While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  thinking. 

III. 

Old  books  to  read  ! 
Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  -^vit. 
The  brazen-clasped,  the  vellum-writ. 

Time-honored  tomes  ! 
The  same  my  sire  scanned  before, 


80  GIVE  ME   THK    OLD. 

The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o'er, 
The  same  liis  sire  from  college  bore  : 
The  well-earned  meed 

Of  Oxford's  domes. 

Old  Homer  blind, 
Old  Horace,  rake  Anacreon,  by 
Old  TuLLY,  Plautus,  Terence  lie  ; 
Mort  Arthur's  olden  minstrelsie, 
Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay  ! 
And  Gervase  Markham's  venerie  ; 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  Holye  Book  by  which  we  live  and  die. 

IV. 

Old  fi-iends  to  talk  ! 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few. 
The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found  : 
Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud. 
Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 
In  mountain  walk  ! 
Bring  Walter  good. 
With  soulful  Fred,  and  learned  Will  ; 
And  thee,  my  alter  ego^  (dearer  still 
For  every  mood.) 

Robert  Hinckley  Messing kr. 


REST   AND    LABOR 

"  Two  hands  upon  the  breast, 

And  labor's  done ; 
Two  pale  feet  crossed  in  rest, 

The  race  is  won  ; 
Two  eyes  with  coin  weights  shut, 

And  all  tears  cease  ; 
Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute. 

Anger  at  peace  !  " 
So  pray  we  oftentimes,  mourning  our  h)t ; 
(jod  in  his  kindness  answereth  not. 

"  Two  hands  to  work  addrest, 

Aye  for  His  praise ; 
Two  feet  that  never  rest, 

Walking  His  ways  ; 
Two  eyes  that  look  above. 

Through  all  their  tears  ; 
Two  lips  still  breathing  love. 

Not  wrath,  nor  fears  I  " 
So  pray  we  afterwards,  low  on   our  knees  , 
Pardon  those  erring  prayers !    Father,  hear  these 

DixAH  Maria  Mulocu 


81 


HE   STANDETH   AT  THE    DOOR   AND   KNOCKETH. 

In  the  silent  midnight  watches, 

List — thy  bosom  door  ! 
How  it  knocketli  —  knocketh  —  knocketh, 

Knocketh  evermore  ! 
Say  not  'tis  thy  pulse's  beating : 

'Tis  thy  heart  of  sin  ; 
'Tis  thy  Saviour  knocks,  and  crietli 

"  Rise,  and  let  me  in !  " 

Death  comes  on  with  reckless  footsteps. 

To  the  hall  and  hut : 
Think  you  Death  will  tarry,  knocking, 

Where  the  door  is  shut  ? 
Jesus  waiteth  —  waiteth  —  waiteth. 

But  the  door  is  fast ; 
Grieved,  away  thy  Saviour  goeth  ; 

Death  breaks  in  at  last. 

Then  'tis  time  to  stand  enti'eating 

Christ  to  let  thee  in  : 
At  the  gate  of  Heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 
Nay  !  —  alas,  thou  guilty  creature  ! 

Hast  thou,  then,  forgot  ? 

Jesus  waited  long  to  know  thee  ; 

Now  he  knows  thee  not. 

Arthur  Clkvelaxd  Coxe 

82 


(UJLF-WKEl). 


A    WKAUY    weed,   tossed   to  and  fro, 

Drearily  dreiiclied   in  tlie  ocean   brine, 
Soarino-  liiu-h  and  sinkino;  low, 

Lashed  along  without  will   of  mine  ; 
Sport  of  the  spoom  of  the  surging  sea. 

Flung  on  the  foam   afar  and  anear, 
"Nlai'k  my  manifold  mystery  : 

Growth   and  grace  in   their  place  ap])eai', 
S3 


M4  EXHORTATION    TO    PRAYER. 

I   bear  rouiul  iK-rries,  gray  and  red, 

Rootless  and  rover  tliough  I  be  ; 
My  spangled  leaves,  when  nicely  sj)ivad, 

Arboresce  as  a  trunkless  tree  ; 
Corals  curious  coat  me  o'er, 

White  and  hard  in  a})t  array  ; 
'j\Iid  the  wild  waves'  rude  ui)roar, 

Graceftdly  grow  I,  night  and  day. 

Hearts  there  are  on  the  sounding  shore, 

Something  wliisj^ers  soft  to  me, 
Restless  and  roaming  for  evermore, 

Like  this  weary  weed  of  the  sea  ; 
Bear  they  yet  on  each  beating  breast 

The  eternal  type  of  the  wondrous  whole : 
Growth  unfolding  amidst  unrest, 

Grace  informing  with  silent  soul. 

CouxKi.ius  Gkokgk  Fkxnkii. 


EXHORTATION    TO    I'RAYKK. 

Mot  on   a  prayerless  bed,  not  on   a  prayeiless   bed 
Compose  thy  weary  limbs  to  rest ; 
For  they  alone  are  blest 
With   balmy   sleep 
Whom  angels  keep  ; 
Nor,   though   by  care  o])pressed, 
( )r  anxious  sorrow, 


EXHORTATION   TO   PRAYER.  35 

Or  thought  in  many  a  coil  perplexed 
For  coming  morrow, 
Lav  not  thy  head 
On  prayerless  bed. 

For  who  can  tell,  when  sleep  thine  eye  shall  close, 
Til  at  earthly  cares  and  Avoes 
To  thee  may  e'er  return? 
Arouse,  my  soul ! 
Slumber  control. 
And  let  thy  lamp  burn  brightly ; 

So  shall  thine  eyes  discern 
Things  pure  and  sightly ; 
Taught  by  the  Spirit,  learn 
Never  on  prayerless  bed 
To  lay  thine  unblest  head. 

Hast  thou  no  pining  want,  or  wish,  or  care, 
That  calls  for  holy  prayer? 

Has  thy  day  been  so  bright 
That  in  its  flight 
There  is  no  trace  of  sorrow  ? 
And  art  thou  sure  to-morrow 

"Will  be  like  this,  and  moi^e 
Abundant?     Dost  thou  yet  lay  up  thy  store, 

And  still  make  plans  for  more  ? 

Thou  fool !  this  very  night 

Thy  soul  may  wing  its  flight. 

Hast  thou  no  being  than  thyself  more  dear. 
That  ploughs  the  ocean  deep. 


i^(]  THE   GOOD   GREAT  MAN. 

And  when  storms  sweep 
The  wintry,  lowering  slcy, 
For  whom  thou  wak'st  and  weepest? 
O,  when  thy  pangs  are  deepest, 
Seek  then  the  covenant  ark  of  prayer  I 
For  He  that  skimbereth  not  is  there: 
His  ear  is  open  to  thy  cry. 
O,  then,  on  ])rayerless  bed 
Lay  not  thy  thoughtless  liead  ! 

Arouse  thee,  weary  soul,  nor  yield  to  slumber  I 
Till  in  communion  blest 
With  the  elect  ye  rest, 
Those  souls  of  countless  number ; 
And  with  them  raise 
The  note  of  praise, 
Reachino;  from  Earth  to  Heaven : 
Chosen,  redeemed,  forgiven ! 
So  lay  thy  happy  head. 
Prayer-crowned,  on  blessed  bed. 

Margaket  Mp:rckk 


THE   GOOD   GREAT  MAN 

How  seldom,  Mend,  a  good  great  man  inherits 

Honor  and  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and  pains ! 
it  seems  a  story  from  the  world  of  spirits 
When  ■  any  man  obtains  that  which  he  merits. 
Or  any  merits  that  which  he   obtains. 


DIRGE    OF  JEPHTHAH'S   DAUGHTER.  87 

For  shame,  my  friend  I  renounce  tliis  idle  strain  ! 

What  woiildst  tliou  liave  a  gocxl  great  man  obtain  "'* 

Wealth,  title,  dignity,  a  golden   chain  ? 

Or  heap  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath  slain  ? 

Goodness  and  greatness  are  not  mean>^,  but  ends. 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends. 

The  good  great  man?     Three  treasures  —  love,  and  light, 

And  calm  thoughts,  equable  as  infant's  breath  ; 
And  three  fast  friends,  more  sure  than  day  or  night  : 

Himself,  his  ^laker,  and  the  angel  Death. 

Samuel  Taylor  Colkkipge. 


DIRGE   OF  JEPHTHAH'S   DAUGHTER. 

SUNG    HY   THK    VIHGIXS. 

O  THOU,  the  wonder  of  all  dayes  I 
O  paragon,  and  pearl  of  ])raise  ! 
O   virgin-martyr,  ever  blest 

Above  the  rest 
Of  all  the  maiden  traine!     We  come. 
And  bring  fresh  strewings  to  thy  tombe. 

Thus,  thus,  and  thus,  we  compasse  rounj) 
Thy  harmlesse  and  unhaunted  ground  I 
And  as  we  sing  thy  dirge,  we  will 

The  daffodill. 
And  other  flowers,  lay  upon 
The  altar  of  our  love,   thy  stone. 


gg  DIHGE   OF   JErilTHAH'S  DAUGHTER. 

Thou  wonder  of  all  maids,  rest  here  I 
Of  daugliters  all  the  dearest  deare, 
The  eye  of  virgins  ;  nay,  the  queen 

Of  this  smooth  green, 
And  all  sweet  meades  from  whence  wo  get 
The  primrose  and  the  violet ! 

Too  soone,  too  deare,  did  Jephthah  buy, 

By  thy  sad  losse,  our  liberty  ; 

His  was  the  bond  and  covenant,  yet 

Thou  ])aid"st  the  debt. 
Lamented  maid !  he  won  the  day, 
But  for  the  conquest  thou  didst  pay. 

Thy  fotlier  l)rouglit  with  him  along 
The  olive  brancli,  and  victor's  song. 
He  slew  the  Annnonites,  we  know  : 

But  to  thy  woe  ; 
And  in  the  purchase  of  cur  peace 
The  cure  was  worse  than  the  disease. 

For  which  obedient  zeale  of  thine 
We  offer  here,  before  thy  shrine, 
Our  sighs  for  storax,  teares  for  wine  ; 

And,  to  make  fine 
And  fresh  thy  herse-cloth,  we  will  here 
Four  times  bestrew  thee  every  yeare. 

Receive,  for  this  thy  praise,  our  teares  I 
Receive  this  offering  of  our  haircs  I 
Receive  these   christall  vials,  filled 


DIRGE   OF   JEPHTHAli'S   DAUGHTER.  ^9 

Witli  teares  distilled 
From  teeming  eyes  !     To  these  we  bring, 
Each  maid,  her  silver  filleting, 

To  guild  thy  tombe.     Besides,  these  caules. 
These  laces,  ribbands,  and  these  faules  ; 
These  veiles,  wherewith  we  use  to  hide 

The  bashfull  bride 
When  we  conduct  her  to  her  groome  • 
All,  all  we  lay  upon  thy  tombe  ! 

No  more,  no  moi'e,  since  thou  art  dead, 
Shall  we  e'er  bring  coy  brides  to  bed  ; 
No  more,  at  yearly  festivalls. 

We   cowslip  balls, 
Or  chaines  of  columbines,  shall  make 
For  this  or  that  occasion's  sake. 

No,  no  !  our  maiden  pleasures  be 
Wrapt  in  the  Avinding-sheet  with  thee  : 
'Tis  we  are  dead,  though  not  i'  th'  grave  ; 

Or  if  we  have 
One  seed  of  life  left,  'tis  to  keep 
A   Lent  for  thee  —  to  fast  and  weej). 

Sleep  in  thy  }>eace,  thy  bed  of  spice. 

And  make  this  ])lace  all  paradise  ! 

May  sweets  grow  here,  and  smoke  from  hence 

Fat  frankincense  ! 
Let  balme  and  cassia  send   their  scent 
From  out  thy  maiden  monument ' 


"/l^^e.^_,    <2^>^lvi-»*i^  ^  '~^!L-JL^  ^f^^tlLe^  ^^-fv^.::;:^  A^^Ae/-^ 

^:^?^,     ^^^^      Ji^-r^     rV^-r>L_      f.c.-^,-^c^      -'^— X' 


^  ^v_ 


^^>t^— #- 


'Z^i^.'^.jt^ 


UNSEEN  SPIEITS  91 

May  no  wolfe  howle,  nor  screecli-owle  stir 

A  wing  about  thy  sepulchre  ! 

No  boysterous  winds  or  storms  come  hither, 

To  starve   or  wither 
Thy  soft  sweet  earth  ;  but,  like  a  Spring, 
Love  keep  it  ever  flourishing  ! 

May  all  shie  maids,  at  wonted  hours. 

Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tombe  with  flowers  ! 

May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn, 

Male  incense  burn 
Upon  thine  altar  ;  then  return. 
And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thine  mm  ! 

ROBFRT     HkKKICK. 


UNSEEN   SPIRITS. 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway : 

'Twas  near  the  twilight-tide ; 
And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride. 
Alone  walked  she  ;  but,  viewlessly. 

Walked  spirits  at  her  sidt^. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charmed  the  air  ; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her. 

And  called  her  good  as  fair  ; 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 


92  UNSEEN   SPIRITS. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rave 

From  lovers  warm  and  true  ; 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold. 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo. 
But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell, 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair, 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail : 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray  ; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way. 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  Heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway  ! 

Nathaniel  Pabkkk  Willis. 


,^^f<«'.,r"^-^\^V^^^■ 


THE   CROOKED   FOOTPATH. 


Ah,  here  It  is!  the  shding  rail 

That  maiks  the  okl  remembered  spot, 
93 


04  TlIK  (  ROOKED  FOOTPATH. 

Tlic  gap  that  struck  our  sclioulboy  trail, 
The  crooked  path  across  the  lot. 

It  left  the  road  by  school  and  cluircli: 
A  pencilled  shadow,  nothing  mure, 

Tliat  parted  from  the  silver  birch 
And  ended  at  the  fai'inliouse  door. 

No  line  or  compass  traced  its  plan  ; 

With  frequent  bends  to  left  or  right, 
In  aimless,  waywai'd  curves  it  ran, 

But  always  ke])t  the  door  in   sigjit. 

The  gabled  ])()rch,   with   woo(ll)inG  givt-n, 
The  broken   millstone  at  the  sill, 

Though  many  a  rood  might  stretch  between, 
The  truant  child  could  see   them   still. 

No  rocks  across  the  pathway  lie, 
No  fallen   trunk  is  o'er  it  thrown  ; 

And  yet  it  wijids,  Ave  know  not  why, 
And  turns  as  if  for  tree  or  stone. 

Perhaps  some  lover  trod  the   wav, 

AVith  shakino-  knees  and  leai)in«'-  heart  ; 

And  so  it  often  runs  astray, 

With  siiuious  sweep  or  sudden  start. 

Or  one,  perchance,  with  clouded  brain, 
From  some  unholy  banquet  reeled  ; 

And  since,  oiu"  devious  steps  maintain 
His  track  across  the  tnxlden  field. 


THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH.  95 

Nay,  deem  not  thus: — no  earth-born   will 

Could  ever  trace  a  faultless  line  ; 
Our  truest  steps  are  human  still, 

To  walk  unswervincr  were  divhie. 

Tniants  from  love,  we  dream  of  wratli ; 

O,  rather  let  us  trust  the  more  ! 
Through  all  the  wanderings  of  the  path. 

We  still  can  see  our  Father's  door  ! 

Olivp;u  Wendell  Holmes. 


INVOCATION   OF   SILENCE. 

Still-born  Silence !  thou  that  art 

Flood-gate  of  the  deeper  heart ! 

Offspring  of  a  heavenly  kind ; 

Frost  o'  the  mouth,  and  thaw  o'  the  mind  ; 

Secrecj^'s  confidant,  and  he 

Who  makes  religion  mystery ; 

Admiration's  speaking'st  tongue  ! 

Leave,  thy  desert  shades  among. 

Reverend  hermits'  hallowed  cells, 

Where  retired  Devotion  dwells  : 

With  thy  enthusiasms  come. 

Seize  our  tongues,  and  strike  ns  dumb  ! 

RiciiAnn  Flecicnoe. 


A   LYKE-WAKE   DIRGE 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  iiighte, 

Everie  nighte  and  alle, 
Fire,  and  selte,  and  candle-lighte  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saide! 

When  thou  from  hence  away  art  past, 

Everie  nighte  and  aUe, 
To  Whinny-muir  tliou  comest  at  last ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saide  ' 

If  ever  thou  gavest  liosen  and  shoon, 

Everie  nighte  and  alle, 
Sit  thee  down  and  put  them  on  ; 

A7id  Christe  receive  thy  saide! 

If  hosen  and  shoon  thou  gavest   nane. 

Everie  nighte  and  alle. 
The  whinnes  shall  pricke  thee  to  the  bare  bane  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule! 

From  Whinny-muir  when  thou   mayst  passe, 

Everie  nighte  and  alle. 
To  Brigg  o'  Dread  thou  comest  at  last ; 

A)id  Christe  receive  thy  saule ! 

From   Brigg  o'  Dread  when  thou  mayst  passo, 
Everie  nighte  and  alle^ 
06 


SONG.  t)7 

To  Purgatory  fire  thou  comest  at  last : 

Aiid  Christe  receive  thy  saule! 

If  ever  thou  gavest  meate  or  diiiike, 

Uverie  nighte  and  alle, 
Tlie  fire   shall  never  make  thee  shrinke  : 

And  Christe  receive  thy  snulc .' 

If  meate  or  drinke  thou  gavest  naiie, 

Uverie  niyhte  and  alle, 
The  fire  will  burne  thee  to  the  bare  bane  : 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule! 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 

Uverie  nighte  and  alle. 
Fire,  and  selte,  and  candle-lighte  ; 

And  Chriate  receive  thy  saule! 

Anonymoi's. 
SONG. 

She  sat  and  sang  alway 

By  the  green  marghi  of  a  stream, 
Watching  the  fishes  leap  and  play 

Beneath  the  glad  sunbeam. 

I  sat  and  wept  alway 

Beneath  the  moon's  most  shadowy  beam, 
Watching  the  blossoms  of  the  May 

Weep  leaves  into  the  stream. 

I  wept  for  memory  ; 

She  sang  the  hope  that  is  so  fair : 
My  tears  were  swallowed  by  the  sea ; 

Her  songs  died  on  the  air. 

Ohkistina  G.  Rossetti. 


THE   CROWDED   STREET. 

Let  me  move  slowly  throuoli  the  street, 
Filled  with  an  ever-shifting  train, 

Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 

The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come  ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face  : 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles,  and  some 

Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace  I 

They  pass  —  to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest : 
To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread, 

To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 
In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair. 
Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to  cheek 

With  mute  caresses,  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some,  who  walk  m  calmness  here. 
Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 

Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 
Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 
08 


THE   CROWDED    STREET.  99 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender  frame, 

And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye, 
Go'st  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 

Or  early  in  the  task  to  die  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow. 

Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare  ? 
Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  now  ? 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air  ? 

Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 

The  dance,  till  daylisht  gleams  again  ? 
Who  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead  ? 

Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain  ? 

Some,  famine-struck,  shall   think  how  long 
The  cold,  dark  hours  —  how  slow  the  light ; 

And  some,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 

Each  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures  call. 

They  pass,  and  heed  each  other  not ; 
There  is  avIio  heeds,  Avho  holds  them  all. 

In  His   large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life,  that  seem 

In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend. 
Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 

That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 

William  Cullkx  Biivant. 


THE   WAR-SONG   OF   DIN  AS   YAWR 

The  mountain  sheep  are  sweeter, 
But  the  valley  sheep  are  fatter  ; 
We  therefore  deemed  it  meeter 
To  carry  off  the  latter. 
We  made  an  expedition  ; 
We  met  a  host,  and  quelled  it ; 
We  forced  a  strong  position. 
And  killed  the  men  who  held  it. 

On  Dyfed's  richest  valley, 

Where  herds  of  kinc  were  browsiuii, 

We  made  a  mighty  sally. 

To  furnish  our  carousing. 

Fierce  warriors  rushed  to  meet  us  ; 

We  met  them,  and   o'erthrew  them. 

They  struggled  hard  to  heat  us  ; 

But  we  concjuered  them,  and  slew  therr. 

As  we  drove  our  prize  at  leisure, 
The  king  marched  ft)rth  to  catch  us  ; 
His  rage  surpassed  all  measure. 
But  his  people  could  not  match  us. 
100 


THE    WAK-SONG    OF   DINAS    VAWR  IQl 

He  fled  to  his  hall  pillars  ; 
And,  ere  our  force  we  led  oflf, 
Some  sacked  his  house  and  cellars, 
While  others  cut  his  head  off. 

We  there,  in  strife  bewildering, 
Spilt  blood  enough  to  swim  in  : 
We  orphaned  many  children. 
And  widowed  many  women. 
The  eao;les  and  the  ravens 
We  glutted  with  our  foemen  : 
The  heroes  and  the  cravens, 
The  spearmen  and  the  bowmen. 

We  brought  away  from  battle, 

(And  much  their  land  bemoaned  them), 

Two  thousand  head  of  cattle, 

And  the  head  of  him  who  OAvned  them  : 

Ednyfed,  king  of  Dyfed, 

His  head  was  borne  before  as  ; 

His  wine  and  beasts  supplied  our  feasts. 

His  overthrow  our  chorus. 

Thomas  Love  Peacock 


MOTHER  MARGERY. 

On  a  bleak  lidge,  from  whose  granite  edges 

Sloped  the  rough  land  to  the  grisly  north, 
And  whose  hemlocks,  clinging  to  the  ledges. 

Like  a  thin  banditti  staggered  f'ortli  : 
In  a  crouching,  wormy-timbered  hamlet 

Mother  Margery  shivered  in  the  cold, 
AVith  a  tattered  robe  of  faded  camlet 

On  her  shoulders  —  crooked,  weak,  and  old  ! 

Time  on  her  had  done  his  cruel  pleasure  ; 

For  her  face  was  very  dry  and  thin. 
And  the  records  of  his  growino;  measure 

Lined  and  cross-lined  all  her  shrivelled  skin. 
Scanty  goods  to  her  had  been  allotted, 

Yet  her  thanks  rose  oftener  than  desire  ; 
While  her  bony  fingers,  bent  and  knotted, 

Fed  with  withered  twigs  the  dying  fire. 

Raw  and  weary  were  the  northern  winters  ; 

Winds  howled  jiiteously  around  her  cot, 
Or  with  rude  sighs  made  the  jarring  splinters 

Moan  the  misery  she  bemoaned  not. 
Drifting  tempests  rattled  at  her  windows, 

And  hung  snow-wreaths  round  her  naked  bed  ; 
While  the  wind-flaws  muttered  on  the  cinders. 

Till  the  last  spark  fluttered  and  was  dead. 
102 


MOTHER  MARGERY.  103 

Life  had  fi'esher  hopes  when  she  was  younger, 

But  their  dying  wrung  out  no  complaints  ; 
Chill,  and  penury.,  and  neglect,  and  hunger, 

These  to  jNIargery  were  guardian  saints. 
When  she  sat,  her  head  was,  prayer-like,  bending  ; 

When  she  rose,  it  rose  not  any  more. 
Faster  seemed  her  true  heart  graveward  tending 

Than  her  tired  feet,  weak  and  travel-sore. 

She  was  mother  of  the  dead  and  scattered. 

Had  been  mother  of  the  brave  and  fair  ; 
But  her  branches,  bough  by  bough,  were  shattered, 

Till  her  torn  breast  was  left  dry  and  bare. 
Yet  she  knew,  though  sadly  desolated. 

When  the  children  of  the  poor  depart 
Their  earth- vestures  are  but  sublimated. 

So  to  gather  closer  in  the  heart. 

With  a  courage  that  had  never  fitted 

Words  to  speak  it  to  the  soul  it  blessed, 
She  endured,  in  silence  and  unpitied, 

Woes  enough  to  mar  a  stouter  breast : 
Thus  was  born  such  holy  trust  within  her 

That  the  graves  of  all  who  had  been  dear. 
To  a  region  clearer  and  serener 

Raised  her  spirit  from  our  chilly  sphere. 

They  were  footsteps  on  her  Jacob's  ladder  ; 

Angels  to  her  were  the  loves  and  hopes 
Which  had  left  her  purified,  but  sadder  ; 

And  they  lured  her  to  the  emerald  slop<"« 


104  MOTHER  MARGERY. 

Of  that  Heaven  where  Anguisli  never  flashes 
Her  red  fire-whips  —  happy  hind,  where  flowers 

Blossom  over  the  volcanic  ashes 

Of  this  blighting,  blighted  world  <;f  ours  ! 

All  her  power  was  a  love  of  goodness  ; 

All  her  wisdoiji  was  a  mystic  faith 
Tliat  the  rough  world's  jargoning  and  rudeness 

Turn  to  music  at  the  gate  of  Death. 
So  she  walked,  while  feeble  limbs  allowed  her, 

Knowing  well  that  any  stubborn  grief 
She  mio-ht  meet  with  could  no  more  than  crowd  her 

To  that  wall  whose  opening  was  relief. 

So  she  lived,  an  anchoress  of  sorrow, 

Lone  and  peacefiil,  on  the  rocky  slope  ; 
And,  when  burning  trials  came,  would  borrow 

New  fire  of  them  for  the  lamp  of  hope. 
When  at  last  her  palsied  hand,  in  groping. 

Rattled  tremulous  at  the  grated  tomb. 
Heaven  flashed  round  her  joys  beyond  her  hoping, 

And  her  young  soul  gladdened  into  bloom. 

George  Shepheud  Burlek.h 


LOUIS   XV. 

The  king,  with  all  the  kingly  train,  had  left  his  Pompadour  be- 
hind, 

And  forth  he  rode  in  Senart's  wood,  the  royal  beasts  of  chase  to 
find. 

That  day,  by  chance,  the  monarch  mused ;  and  turning  suddenly 
away. 

He  struck  alone  into  a  path  that  far  from  crowds  and  courtiers  lay. 

He  saw  the  pale  green  shadows  play  upon  the  brown  untrodden 
earth ; 

He  saw  the  birds  around  him  flit,  as  if  he  were  of  peasant  birth  ; 

He  saw  the  trees,  that  know  no  king  but  him  who  bears  a  wood- 
land axe  ; 

He  thought  not  —  but  he  looked  about,  like  one  who  still  in  thinking 
lacks. 

Then  close  to  him  a  footstep  fell,  and  glad  of  human  sound  was  he  ; 

For,  truth  to  say,  he  found  himself  but  melancholy  companie. 

But  that  which   he  would  ne'er  have   guessed    before  him  now  most 

plainly  came  : 
The  man  upon  his  weary  back  a  coffin  bore  of  rudest  frame. 

■'  Why,  who   art  thou  ? "   exclaimed   the  king ;  "  and  what  is    that  I 

see  thee  bear  ?  " 
■'  I  am  a  laborer  in  the  wood,  and  'tis  a  coffin  for  Pierre. 

105 


10(3  LOUIS   XV. 

Close  by  tlie  royal  hunting-lodge  you  may  have  often  seen  him  toil ; 
But  he  will  never  work  again,  and  I  for  him  must  dig  the   soil." 

The  laborer  ne'er  had  seen  the  king,  and  this  he  thought  was  but 
a  man  ; 

Who  made  at  first  a  moment's  j^ause,  and  then  anew  his  talk  be- 
gan : 

"I  think  I  do  remember  now  —  he  had  a  dark  and  glancing  eye; 

And  I   have  seen  his    sturdy  ann  with  wondrous  stroke    the  pickaxe 

"  Pray  tell  me,  friend,  what  accident  can  thus  have    killed  our  good 

Pierre  ?  " 
"  O,  nothing  more    than  usual,  sir  :  he  died  of  living  upon  air. 
'Tw^as  hunger  killed  the  poor  good    man,  who  long   on  empty  hopes 

relied ; 
He    could   not    pay  gahelle    and    tax,  and    feed    his    children  —  so   he 

died." 

The    man    stopped   short ;  and  then    went  on  — "  It  is,  you  know,  a 

common  story : 
Our  children's  food  is  eaten  up  by  courtiers,  mistresses,  and  glory." 
The  king  looked  hard  upon  the  man,  and  afterwards  the  coffin  eyed  ; 
Then  spurred  to    ask,  of  Pompadour,  how  came  it  that  the  peasants 

died. 

JOHX    SlKlM-INCr. 


THE   STORMING   OF  MAGDEBURGH. 

When  the  breach  was  open  laid, 

Bold  we  mounted  to  the  attack  : 

Five  times  the  assault  was  made ; 

Four  times  were  Ave  driven  back  I 

But  the  fifth  time  up  we  strode, 

O'er  the  dying  and  tlie  dead. 

Red  the  western   sunbeams  glowed, 

Sinking  in  a  blaze  of  red  ; 

Redder  in  the  gory  way 

Our  deep  plashing  footsteps  sank, 

As  the  cry  of  "Slay  —  Slay  —  Slay!" 

Echoed  fierce  from  rank  to  rank. 

And  we  slew,  and  slew,  and  slew  : 

Slew  them  with  unpitying  sword. 

Neolif^entlv  could  we  do 

The  commanding  of  the  Lord? 

Fled  the  coward,  fought  the  brave, 

Wejit  the  widow,  wailed  the  child  ; 

But  there  did  not  'sca])e  the  glaive 

Man  that  frowned,  nor  bibe  that  smiled. 

There   were  thrice  ten   thousand  men 

When  that  morning's  sun  arose ; 

Lived  not  thrice  three  hundred  when 

Sunk  that  sun  at  evening's  close. 

lor 


108  THE   STOinilXG   OF   MAGDEBURGII. 

Then  we  sj)read  the  wasting  flame, 
Fed  to  fury  by  the  Avind  : 
Of  the  city  —  but   the  name, 
Nothing  else,  remained  behind. 
But  it  burned  not  till  it  gave 
All  it  had  to  yield  of  spoil : 
Should  not  brave  soldadoes  have 
Some  rewarding  for  their  toil  ? 
What  the  villain  sons  of  trade 
Earned  by  years  of  toil  and  cai'e. 
Prostrate  at  our  bidding  laid, 
In  one  moment  won  —  was  there. 
Hall  and  palace,  dome  and  tower, 
Lowly  cot  and  soaring  spire. 
Sank  in  that  victorious  hour 
Which  consigned  the  town  to  fire. 
Then  throughout  the  burning  town, 
'Mid  the  steaming  heaps  of  dead, 
Cheered  by  sound  of  hostile  moan. 
We  the  gorgeous  banquet  spread  : 
Laughing  loud  and  quaffing  long. 
At  our  glorious  labor  o'er. 
To  the  skies  our  jocund  song 
Told  Magdeburgh  was  no  more  ! 

William  Mao  inn. 


'TUK   KING   OF   DEN^I ARK'S   RIDE. 


Word  was  brouiilit  to  the  Danish  khi^;, 

(Hmrv  :) 
That  the  love  of  his  Iieart  hiy  suffering, 
lull 


■[}()  THE  KIN(t  of  DENMARK'S  IMDE. 

And  ])ined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring  ; 

(O  !    ride  as  thougli  you   were  flying') 
Better  lie  loves  each  golden  curl 
On   tlie  brow   of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than   his  rich  crown-jewels  of  ruby  and  jiearl  ; 

And   his   Rose  of  the    Isles   is  dying. 

'riiirty  nobles  saddled   with   speed  ; 

(Hurry  !) 
Each    one  mounted   a   gallant  steed 
Which   he  kept  for  battle   and   days  of  need  ; 

(O  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying!) 
Spurs  were  struck  in    the  foaming  flank  ; 
W'^orn-out  chai'gers  staggered  and  sank  ; 
iiridles   were  slackened,  and  girths  were   burst : 
But  ride  as  they  would,   the  king  rode  flrst  : 
l*'or  his    Rose  of   the    Isles   lay   dving. 

Flis   nobles  aiv  l)eaten,    one  by   one  ; 

(Hurry  ! ) 
■riiey  have  fainted,   and  faltered,   and   honieward  gone 
His   little  fair  ]»age   now   follows   alone, 

For  streiigtli   and  for  courage  trying. 
The  king  looked  back  at  that  faithful   child  : 
Wan   was  the  face  that  answering  smiled. 
They  ))assed  the  drawbridge  with   clattering   din  : 
Then  he  dro])ped  ;    and  only  the  king  rode  in 

Where  his  Rose  of  the   Isles   lay  dying. 

'I'lie  king  blew   a   blast   on    his   l)ugle  horn  ; 
(Silence  ! ) 


THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE.  Ill 

No  answer  came,  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  gray  morn, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  siohing. 
The  castle  })oi'tal  stood  grimly  wide  ; 
None  welcomed   the  king  from  that  weary  ride  ; 
For,  dead  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 

Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying. 

The  panting  steed  with  a  drooping  crest 

Stood  weary. 
The  king  returned  from  her  chamber  of  rest, 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast ; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eyeing, 
The  tears  gushed  forth,  which  he  strove  to  check  ; 
He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck : 
"  O,  steed,  that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain, 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying  !  " 

Carolixk  Elizameth  Xoutox 


1   aiVE  MY   SOLDIEK-BOY   A   BLADE. 

I  GIVE  my  soldier-boy  a  blade, 

In  fair  Damascus  fashioned  well ; 
Who  first  the  glittering  falchion  swayed, 

Who  first  beneath  its  fury  fell, 
I  know  not ;  but  I  hope  to  knoAv 

That  for  no  mean  or  hirelincf  trade. 
To  guard  no  feeling  base  or  low, 

I  give  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 

Cool,  calm,  and  clear,  the  lucid  Hood 

In  which  its  tempering  work  was  done  ; 
As  calm,  as  clear,  as  cool  of  mood. 

Be  thou  whene'er  it  sees  the  sun  : 
For  country's  claim,  at  Honor's  call. 

For  outraged  friend,  insulted  maid. 
At  Mercy's  voice  to  bid  it  fall, 

I  give  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 

The  eye  Avhich  marked  its  peerless  edge. 

The  hand  that  weighed  its  balanced  poise, 
Anvil  and  pincers,  forge  and  wedge, 

Are  gone,  with  all  their  flame  and  noise ; 
And  still  the  gleaming  sword  remains  : 

So,  when  in  dust  I  low  am  laid, 
Remember,  by  these  heart-felt  strains, 

I  gave  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 

William   Maginx. 
112 


THE   MAHOGANY   THKE. 

Christmas  is  here: 
Winds  whistle  slirill, 
Icy  and  chill. 
Little  care  we  ; 
Little  Ave  fear 
Weather  without, 
Sheltered  about 
The  Maliogany  Tree. 

Once  on  the  boiii;lis 
Birds  of  rare  plinne 
Sang,  in  its  bloom  ; 
Night-biixls  are  we. 
Here  we  carouse, 
Singing  like  tliem. 
Perched  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Here  let  us  s})ort, 
Boys,  as  we  sit, 
Laughter  and  wii 
Flasliing  so  free. 
113 


114  TH1-:   MAHOGANY    TREE 

Life  is  but  short  ; 
When  we  are  gone, 
Let  them  sing  on, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew 
Happy  as  this  ; 
Faces  we  miss, 
Pleasant  to  see. 
Kind  hearts  and  true. 
Gentle  and  just, 
Peace  to  your  dust ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a  dun. 
Lurks  at  the  gate  : 
Let  the  dog  wait ; 
Happy  we'll  be  ! 
Drink,  every  one  ; 
Pile  up  the  coals  ; 
Fill  the  red  bowls, 
Round  the  old  tree ! 

Drain  we  the  cup : 
Friend,  art  afi*aid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the   Red  Sea. 
Mantle  it  up  ; 
Empty  it  yet ; 
Let  us  forget. 
Round  the  old  tree. 


IHE    GRACE    OF    SIMPLICITY  115 

Sorrows,  begone  ! 
Life  and  its  ills, 
Duns  and  their  bills. 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  the  dawn, 
Blue-devil  sprite  ! 
Leave  us  to-night, 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 

William  Makki-kack  Tiiackkuay. 


THE   GRACE   OF   SIMrLICITY. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast, 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed  ! 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed. 

Though  art's  liid  causes  are  not  found. 

All   is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face. 

That  makes  sim])]icity  a  grace  ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free  : 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art ; 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

Bkn  Jonson. 


THE   SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sano-  truce ;    for  the  niglit-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky  ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpoweivd : 
The  Aveaiy  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain. 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw. 
And  thi'ice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methouglit  from  tlie  battle-field's  dreadful  array 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track  : 

'Twas  Autumn  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  Avay 

To  the  liome  of  my  fathers,  tliat  welcomed  me  back. 

I  Hew  to  the  pleasant  fields,  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young  ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  i)ledged  we  the  winecup,  and  fondly  I  swore 

From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part  ;- 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er. 

And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

116 


IT  IS  NOT  BEAUTY  I  DEMAND.  117 

Stay,  stay  with  us  I  —  rest;    tliou  art  weary  and  worn! 

And  i'ain   was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  ; 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  mom, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 

Thomas  Campbell 


IT  IS  NOT  BEAUTY   I   DEMAND. 

It  is  not  beauty  I  demand : 

A  crystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair  ; 
Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand  ; 

Nor  mermaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair. 

Tell  me  not  of  your  starry  eyes  ; 

Your  lips,  that  seem  on    roses  fed  ; 
Your   breasts,  where  Cupid  tumbling  lies, 

Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed ; 

A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks, 
Like  Hebe's  in  her  ruddiest  hours  ; 

A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks 

Than  summer  winds  a-wooing  flowers. 

These  are  but  gauds;  nay,  what  are  lip? 

Corals  beneath  the  ocean-strenro. 
Whose  brink  when  your  adventurer  slips. 

Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 


118  IT   IS  NOT   BEAUTY   I   DE:\IAND. 

And  what  are  cheeks,  but  en.sions  ott, 
Tliat  wave  liot  youtli   to  fields  of  blood? 

Did  Helen's  breast,  though  ne"er  so  soft. 
Do  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good  ? 

Eyes  can  with  baleful  ardor  burn, 

Poison   can   breathe,   that  erst   peifiuned: 

There's  many  a  wlij^e  hand  holds  an   urn, 
With  lovers'  hearts  to  dust  consuiiR-d. 

Foi'  ciystal  brows,  there's  naught  wi'.hin  : 
They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride  ; 

He  who  the  Siren's  hair  would  win 
Is  mostly  strangled  in   the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  beauty's  bust, 
A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind, 

Which  wuth  temptation  I  would  trust, 
Yet  never  linked  with  error  find  ; 

One  in   whose  gentle  bosom   I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes, 

Like  the  care-burdened  honey-fly. 

That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rt)st> ; 

}^ly  earthly  comforter  I  whose  love 

So  indefeasible  might  be, 
Tliut  when  my  spirit  avou  above, 

Hers  C(3uld  not  stay,  for  sympathy. 

Thomas  C 


THE   BEGGAR'S   COURAGE. 

To  heaven  approached  a  Sufi  saint, 
From  gro])ing  in  the  darkness  late, 

And,  tapping  timidly  and   faint, 
Besonght  admission  at  God's  gate. 

Said  God,  "  Who  seeks  to  entej-  here  ?  " 
"  'T  is  I,  dear  Friend !  "  the  saint  replied, 

And  trembled  much  with  hope  and  fear. 
"  If  it  be  thou,  without  abide." 

Sadly  to  earth  tlie  poor  saint  turned. 
To  bear  the  scourging  of  life's  rods  ; 

But  aye  his  heart  within  him  yearned 
To  mix  and  lose  its  love  in  God's. 

He  I'oamed  alone  through  weary  years, 
Bv  cruel  men  still  scorned  and  mocked. 

Until  from  faith's  pure  fires  and  tears 
Again  he  rose,  and  modest  knocked. 

Asked  God,  "  Wiio  now  is  at  the  door  ?  " 

"  It  is  Thyself,  beloved  Lord  !  " 
Answered  the  saint  —  in  doubt  no  more. 

But  clasped  and  rapt  in   his  reward. 

DSCHKLLALKDDIX     RUMI,    (PtTsiail.) 

Translation  of  William  Kouxseville  Algeii. 

iiy 


THE   HAPPY   LIFE. 

How.  liappy  is  he  born  and  taiioht 

That  serveth  not  another's  will, 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thouoht, 

.Viid  simple   truth  his  utmost  skill  I 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 

Whose  soul  is  still  prei)ared  for  death  — 

Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 

Of  public  fame  or  private  breath  ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 

Or  vice  ;   who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given   by  praise  ; 

Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  humors  freed  ; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat  ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed. 

Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great  ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pi'ay 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  wen-chosen  book  or  friend  : 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands, 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall  — 
Lord  ot   himself,  though  not  of  lands  ; 

And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

SiH  IIknuv  Wotidx. 
120 


THE    GIFTS   OF   GOD. 

AVhen   God  at  first  made  man, 

Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by, 

"•  Let   us,"  said  He,  "  pour  on  him  all  we  can  ; 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie. 
Contract  into  a  si)an." 

So  strength  first  made  a  way  ; 

Then  beauty  flowed  ;  then  wisdom,  honor,  pleasure. 
Vhen  almost  all  was  out,   God  made  a  stay, 

Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all   his  treasure, 
Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

"  For  if  I  should,"  said  He, 

"  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature, 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me. 

And  rest  in  Nature  —  not  the  God  of  Nature  : 
So  both  should  losers  be. 

"  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 

But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness  ; 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary  —  that,  at  least. 

If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 
May  toss  him,  to  my  breast." 

(iEORGK    UeKBEKI 

121 


THE    HYMN   OF   DAMASCENUS. 

Fro:\[   my  lips  in  their  defilement, 
From  my  heart  in  its  beguilement, 
From  my  tongue  which  speaks  not  fair, 
From  my  soul  stained  everywhere  — 
O  my  Jesus,  take  my  prayer  ! 

Spurn  me  not,  for  all  it  says  : 
Not  for  words,  and  not  for  ways. 
Not  for  shamelessness  indued  I 
Make  me  brave  to  speak  my  mood, 

0  my  Jesus,  as  I   would  ! 

Or  teach   me,  which  1  rather  seek. 
What  to  do  and  what  to  speak. 

1  have  sinned  more  than  she 

Who,  learning  where  to  meet  with  Thct., 
And  bringing  myrrh  the  highest  priced. 
Anointed  bravely,  from  her  knee, 
Thy  blessed  feet  accordingly  — 
My  God,  my  Lord,  my  Christ ! 
As  Thou  saidest  not  "  Depart !  " 
To  that  suppliant  from  her  heart. 
Scorn  me  not,   O  Word,  that  art 
The  gentlest  one  of  all  words  said  ! 
But  give  Thy  feet  to  me  instead, 
122 


THE  HYMN   OF  DAMASCENUS. 

That  tenderly   I  may  them  kiss, 
And  clasp  them  close;  and  never  miss, 
With  over-dropping  tears,  as  free 
And  precious  as  that  myrrh  could  be, 
T'  anoint  them  bravely  from   my  knee  ! 

Wash  me  with   thy  tears  !  draw  nigh  me, 

That  tlieir  salt  may  purify  me  ! 

Thou  remit  my  sins,   who  knowest 

All  the  sinning,  to  the   lowest  — 

Knowest  all  my  wounds,  and  seest 

All  the  stripes  Thyself  decreest. 

Yea,  but  knowest  all  my  faith, 

Seest  all  my  force  to  death, 

Hearest  all  my  wailings  low 

That  mine  evil  should  be  so  ! 

Nothing  hidden   but  appears 

In   Thy  knowledge,   O   Divine, 

O  Creator,  Saviour  mine!  — 

Not  a  drop  of  falling  tears, 

Not  a  breath  of  inward  moan, 

N^t  a  heart-beat  — which  is  gone  ! 

St.  Joannes  Damasckxus.     (Grock.) 
Translation  uf  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


1  '2:) 


A   THANKSGIVING. 

Lord,  fur  the  erring  though* 
Not  unto  evil   wrought  ; 
Lord,  for  the  wicked  will 
Betrayed  and  baffled  still : 
For  the  heart  from  itself  kept : 
Our  Thanksgiving  accept ! 

For  ignorant  hopes  that  were 
Broken  to  our  blind  prayer ; 
For  j)ain,  death,   sorrow  —  sent 
Unto  our  chastisement ; 
For  all  loss  of  seemino;  o-ood  : 
Quicken  our  gratitude  ! 

William  Deav  iIowkli. 


EXCELSIOR. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an   Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,   'mid  snow  and  ice. 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device  — 
Excelsior  ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath  : 


124 


EXCELSIOR.  125 

And  like  a  silver  clarion  runo- 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tono-ue  — 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright  ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan  — 
Excelsior  ! 

"  Trv  not  the  pass  !  "  the  old  man  said  : 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead  ; 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  !  " 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior  ! 

"  O  stay !  "  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  ui)on  this  breast !  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior  ! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withei'ed  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good-night ; 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height. 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heaven wai'd 
The  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard 


;[26  thp:  emigrants  in  Bermudas. 

Uttered  the  oft-i'epeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried,  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound. 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found. 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device  — 
Excelsior  ! 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray. 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay  ; 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star  — 
Excelsior ! 

HeXRY    WaDSWORTH    LoXGFELI.dW 


THE   EMIGRANTS   IN   BERMUDAS. 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  th'  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat,   that  rowed  along. 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song: 

What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
AVhere   He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs. 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 


THE   EMIGRANTS   IN   BERMUDAS.  127 

Safe  from  the  storms,  and  j)relate's  rage. 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Wliicii  here  enamels  every  thnig, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care. 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright. 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  niglit, 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows. 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 

But  apples  —  plants  of  such  a  price 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice  ! 

With  cedars,  chosen  by  His  hand 

From  Lebanon,  He  stores  tlie  land  ; 

And  makes  the  hollow  seas,  that  roar. 

Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 

He  cast  (of  which   we  rather  boast) 

The   Gospel's   pearl  upon   our  coast; 

And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 

A  temple,  where  to  sound  His  name. 

O  !  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt 

Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault; 

Which  then,  perhaps  rebounding,  may 

Echo  beyond  the   Mexique   bay. 

Thus  sang  they,   in   the  English   boat, 
A  holv  and  a  cheerful  note  ; 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime. 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

Andukw  Ma  II vi; 1. 1 


J<i  Ckatnv«Tsj£l"^e^^W^^] '"  ^('ijTc  1gs.gK. 


THE    SINGERS. 


God    sent  his  singers  n))on   earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
128 


THE   SINGERS.  ^09 

That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  bring  tliem  back  to  lieaven  again. 

The  first,  a  youth  with  soul  of  fire, 

Held  in  his  liand  a  golden  lyre  ; 

Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by  streams, 

Playing  the  music  of  ovir  dreams. 

The  second,  with  a  bearded  face. 
Stood  singing  in  the  market-place, 
Ami  stirred,  with  accents  deep  and  loud. 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 

A  gray  old  man,  the  third  and  last. 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast. 
While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 

And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be  ; 
For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 

But  the  great  Master  said,  "  I  see 

No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree ; 

I  gave  a  various  gift  to  each : 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 

"  These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might ; 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  tlie  three. 
But  the  most  perfect  harmony." 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  MARINER'S   WIFE. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  tliis  a  time  to  talk  o'  wark  ? 
Ye  jades,  fling  by  your  wheel ! 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  houa* 

There's  nae  luck  ava  ; 
Theu'es  little  pleasure  in  the  Jiouse 
W7ien  our  gudeman^s  awa\ 

Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark, 

When  Colin's  at  the  door? 
Rax  down  my  cloak  —  I'll  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 

Rise  up  and  mak  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot, 
Gie  little  Kate  her  cotton  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat ; 

And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 
Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw  ; 

It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman. 
He  likes  to  see  them  braw. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  into  the  crib, 
Been  fed  this  month  and  mair ; 

130 


MAKINER'S  WIFE.  131 

Mak  haste  and  thra  their  necks  about, 
That  Colin  weel  may  fare. 

And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw  ; 
It's  a'  for  love  of  my  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  lang  awa'. 

O  gie  me  down  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop-satin  gown, 
And  rin  and  tell  the  baillie's  wife. 

That  Colin's  come  to  town. 

My  Sunday  shoon  they  maun  gae  on, 

My  hose  o'  pearl  blue; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman. 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Sae  true  his  words,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air! 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't, 

When  he  comes  up  the  stair. 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  Avill  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  with  the  thought: 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 

The  cauld  blasts  of  the  winter  wind 
That  thrilled  through  my  heart. 


j^32  THE  MARINER'S   WIFE. 

Tliey're  a'  blawn  by ;  I  hae  him  safe : 
Till  death  we'll  never  part. 

But  what  puts  parting  in  my  head  ? 

It  may  be  far  awa' : 
The  present  moment  is  our  ain  ; 

The  neist  we  never  saw. 

Since  Colin's  weel,  I'm  weel  content  : 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave  ; 
Could  I  but  live  to  mak  him  blest, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave. 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  Avith  the  thought : 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  crreet. 

William  Julius  Mickle. 


TIBBIE. 


O  Tibbie,  I  liae  seen  tlie  day 
Ye  wadna  been  sae  sliy  ! 

For  laik  o'  gear  ye  lightly  me 
But,  trowth,  I  carena  by. 


Yestreen  I  met  you  on  the   m(i<)r  : 
Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stourc. 
Ye  geek  at  me  because  I  'm  poor  ; 
But  fient  a  hair  care  I. 
ir!3 


13'i  riBBIE. 

I    (loiihtim,   lass,    but  ye    in:iy   think, 
Ht'cause  ye   liae  the  name  o'  clink. 
That  ye  can   ])lease   me   at  a   wink, 
Whene'ei'  ye  Hke   to  try  ; 

Bnt  sorrow   tak  liim   that  "s  sae   mean, 
Altliough   his  ]jouch   o'   coin   were   clean, 
Wha  follows  ony  saucy  quean 

That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

Althongh   a   lad   were   ne'er  sae  smart. 
If  that  he   want  the  yellow  dirt 
Ye  '11  cast  your  head  anither  airt. 
And  answer  him  fu'  dry  ; 

But  if  he   hae   the  name   o'  geai- 
Ye  '11  fasten   to  him  like  a  brier, 
Though   hardly  he,  for  sense  or  lear. 
Be  better  than  the  kye. 

But,  Tibbie  lass,  tak  my  advice  : 
Your  daddy's  gear  maks  you  sae  nice  ; 
The  deil  a  ane   wad  spier  your  price, 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  L 

There  lives  a  lass  in  yonder  park, 
I  wadna  gie  her  in  her  sark 
For  thee,   wi'  a'   thy  thousan'   mark  — 
Ye  needna  look  sae  hio;h  I 


WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN.        135 

0  Tibbie,  1 7iae  seen  the  day 

Ye  ivadna  been  sae  shy! 
For  laik  0'  gear  ye  lightly  me  ; 

But,  trowth,  I  earena  by. 

RoBF.KT  Burns. 


WHEN   THE   SULTAN   GOES   TO   ISPAHAN. 

When  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 

Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan, 

Even  before  he  gets  so  far 

As  tlie  place  where  the  clustered  pahii-trees  are, 

At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace  gates, 

The  pet  of  the  harem,  Rose-in-Bloom, 

Orders  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room : 

Glittering  squares  of  colored  ice. 

Sweetened  with  syrup,  tinctured  with  spice  ; 

Creams,  and  cordials,  and  sugared  dates  ; 

Syrian  apples,  0th man ee  quinces, 

Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots  ; 

And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes. 

And  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 

Of  spiced  meats  and  costliest  fish. 

And  all  that  the  curious  palate  could   wish. 

Pass  in  and  out  of  the  cedarn  doors. 

Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 

Are  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets  ; 

And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 

Of  a  hundred  colors  into  the  air. 

The  dusk  Siiltana  loosens  her  hair, 


13G  WHEN   THE    SULTAN   GOES   TO   ISPAHAN. 

And  stains  with  the  henna-plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pearly  nails,  and  bites  her  lips 
Till  they  bloom  again  ;  but  alas,  that  rose 
Not  for  the  Sultan  buds  and  blows  ! 
Not  for  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
WTieti  he  goes  to  the  city  la^ahan. 

Then,  at  a  wave  of  her  sunny  hand, 
The  dancins-sirls  of  Samarcand 
Float  in  like  mists  from  Fairy-land  ! 
And  to  the  low  voluptuous  swoons 
Of  music  rise  and  fall  the  moons 
Of  their  full,   brown  bosoms.     Orient  blood 
Runs  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes ; 
And  there  in  this  Eastern  paradise, 
Filled  with  the  fumes  of  sandal-wood. 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes  and  myrrh, 
Sits  Rose-in-Bloom  on  a  silk  divan, 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrakhan  ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her. 
That  "s  when  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
G-oes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Now,  when  I  see  an  extra  light 
Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night. 
From  my  neighbor's  casement  opposite, 
I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 
I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say, 
That  the  innocent  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Has  gone  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


THE   ANGEIv. 

I  DREAMED  a  dream  —  wliat  can  it  mean  ? 
And  that  I   was  a  maiden  queen, 
Guarded  by  an  Angel  mild  : 
Witless  woe,   was  ne'er  beguiled  ! 

And  I   wept  both  night  and  day, 
And  he   wiped  my  tears  away  ; 
And  I  wept  both  day  and  night, 
And  hid  from   him  my  heart's  delight. 

So  he  took  his  wings  and  fled. 
Then  the  morn  blushed  rosy  red  ; 
I  dried  ray  tears,  and  armed  my  fears 
With   ten  thousand  shields  and  spears. 

Soon  my  Angel  came  again  : 
I  was  armed  —  he  came  in   vain  ; 
For  the  time  of  youth  was  fled. 
And  gray  hairs  were  on  my  head. 


WiLMA.M     Bl.AKK. 


1:11 


^?  Ajl  Ods/^'^  £^,/^A.cr  Srch-tn^  *^>i    M^  Ac/^ 


'6 


'Oa.    In  and  ?___as  m  Lwc^  later  ediLiofLS.  _    J  W  P 


MY   LADY   SINGING. 

She  wliom  this  heart  nuist  ever  hold  most  clear 
(This  heart  in  happy  bondage  held  so  lono;) 
Be^an  to  sing.     At  first  a  oentle  fear 
Rosied  her  countenance  —  for  she  is  young, 
And  he  who  loves  her  most  of  all  M^as  near  ; 
But  when  at  last  her  voice  grew  full  and  strong, 
O,  from  their  ambush  sweet,  how  rich  and  clear 
Bubbled   the  notes  abroad  —  a   rapturous  throng! 
Her  little  hands  were  sometimes  flung  apart, 
And  sometimes  palm  to  palm  together  prest, 
Whilst  wave-like  blushes,  rising  from  her  breast, 
Kept  time  with  that  aerial  melody, 
As  music  to  the  sight!  —  I,  standing  nigh, 
Received  the  fallino;  fountain  in  mv  heart. 

Aubrey  De  Vkkfj. 


THE   SWORD   OF   CASTIIUCCIO   CASTRUCANI. 

"  Questa  e  per  me." 

When   Victor  Emmanuel,  the  king, 
Went  down   to  his  Lucca  tiiat  day, 

Tiie  people,  each  vaunting  the  thing 
As  he  gave  it,  gave  all  things  away 
In   a   bui'st  of  fierce  gratitude,   say  — 

As  they  tore   out  their  hearts  for  the  king  : 


140  THL   bVVORD   OF   CASTRUCCIO   CASTRUCANl. 

Gave  the  green  forest-walk  on  tlie   wall, 

With  the  Appenine  blue  through  the  trees  — 

Gave  palaces,  churches,  and  all 

The  great  pictures  which  burn  out  of  these. 
But  the  eyes  of  the  king  seemed  to  freeze. 

As  he  glanced  upon  ceiling  and  wall. 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  king  as  he  past. 

Was  he  cold  to  the  arts  ?  —  or  else  coy 
To  possession  ?  —  or  crossed  at  the  last. 

Whispered  some,  by  the  vote  in  Savoy  ? 

Shout!  —  Love  him  enough  for  his  jov  ! 
"  Good  !  "  said  the  king  as  he  past. 

He,  travelling  the  whole  day  througli  fl(jwers 
And  protesting  amenities,  found 

At  Pistoia,  betwixt  the  two  showers 

Of  red  roses,   "  the  Orj)hans  "   (renowneil 
As  the  heirs  of  Puccini),  who  wound 

With  a  sword  through  the  crowd  and  the  flowers. 

''  'T  is  the  sword  of  Castruccio,  O  king  I 
In  old  strife  of  intestinal  hate 

Very  famous.  Accept  what  we  bring  — 
We,  who  cannot  be  sons  by  our  fate. 
Rendered  citizens  by  thee  of  late. 

And  endowed  with  a  country  and  king. 

"  Read  :  —  Puccini  has  willed  tliat  this  sword 

(Which  once  made,  in  an  ignorant  feud, 
Many  orphans^  remain  in  our  ward 


SONG    OF    ARIEL 


141 


Till  some  patriot  its  pure  civic  blood 
Wipe  away  in  the  foe's  and  make  good, 
In  delivering  the  land  by  the  sworfl." 

Then  the  king  exclaimed,  "  This  is  for  me  I  "" 
And  he  dashed  out  his  sword  on  the  hilt, 

While  his  blue  eye  shot  fire  oijeiilv. 
And  his  heart  ovfi-boiled  till  it  spilt 
A   hot  prayer:    "God!   the  rest  as   Thou   wilt  I 

But  grant  me  this  —  this  is  for  me !  ^'' 

O  Victor  Emmanuel  the  king  ! 

The  sword   be  for  thee,   and   the  deed ! 
And  nought  for  the  alien,  next  Spring, 

Nought  for  Hapsburg  and  Bourbon  agreed  ; 

But  for  us,  a  great  Italy  freed. 
With  a  hero  to  head  us  —  our  King  ! 

Elizarkth  Bauuf.tt  r>i:o\vNi.\G. 


SONG    OF    ARIEL. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  flither  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  ; 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fide 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymj)hs  liourly  ring  his  knell  : 
Hark  !   now   I   hear  them  —  ding,   dong,   bell  ! 

SlIAKSJ'EAIlK 


THE   PARTING   LOVERS. 

She  says,  The  cock  crows  —  hark  ! 
He  says,  No  !  still  't  is  dark. 

She  says,  The  dawn  grows  bright  ; 
He  says,  O  no,  my  Light ! 

She  says.  Stand  up  !  and  say. 
Gets  not  the  heaven  gray  ? 

He  says.  The  morning  star 
Climbs  the  horizon's  bar. 

Slie  says,  Then  quick  depart  : 
Alas  !  you  now  must  start. 

But  give  the  cock  a  blow 
Who  did  begin  our  woe  ! 


AxoxvMous,  (Cliiiiese.) 


Translation  of  Wili.i.vm  Rouxseville  Alger. 


THE  RAVEN. 

Once,  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
While  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious 
Volum^,  of  forgotten  lore, 
142 


THE   liAVEN.  ;[43 

While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, 

Rapping  at  my  clianiber  door; 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered, 

"  Tapping  at  my  chamber  door  ; 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember! 
It  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember 

Wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ; 
Vainly  I  had  tried  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow, 

Sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore, 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  : 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  micertain 
Rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic 

Terrors  never  felt  before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating 
Of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door. 
Some  late  visitor  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door: 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more."' 


144  THE   RAVEN. 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger .: 
Hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly 

Your  forgiveness  I  implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping, 
And  so  gently  you  came  rapping. 
And  so  faintly  you  caniL'  tapping, 

Tapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
That  I  scarce  was  sui'e  I  heard  you  ; " 

Here  I  opened  wide  the  door : 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more .' 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering. 
Long  I  stood  there  wonderino;,  fearinc. 
DouDting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 

Ever  dared  to  dream  before  ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken, 
And  the  darkness  gave  no  token. 
And  the  only  A\ord  there  spoken 

Was  the  whispered   word    "  Lenore ! ' 
This  I  Avhispered,  and  an  echo 

jNIiirmured  back  the  Avord  "  Lenore  I 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  into  the  chamber  turning. 
All  my  soul  within  me  burning. 
Soon  I  heard  again  a  tapping. 

Somewhat  louder  than  before  : 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is 
Something  at  my  window  lattice  : 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  i.s. 


THE   RAVEN. 

And  this  mystery  explore  ; 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment. 
And   this  mystery  explore : 
'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more '  " 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter, 
When,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven 

Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore ; 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he, 
Not  an  instant  stopped  or  stayed  he  ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  ladv, 

Perched  above  my  chamber  door. 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door  : 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 

My  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 

Of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"  Thouo;h  tliv  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
Thou,"  I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven. 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven, 

Wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore  : 
Tell  me  Avliat  thy  lordly  name  is 

On  the  Nicrht's  Plutonian  shore !  " 

Quoth  the  raven  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly 
Fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 


14; 


146  'i'HE   RAVEN. 

Thouo;li  its   answer  little  meanino-. 

Little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  lielp  agreeing 
That  no  living;  human  beincr 
Ever  yet  Avas  blessed  with  seeing 

Bird  above  his  chamber  door, 
Bird  or  beast  npon  the  sculptured 

Bust  above  his  chamber  dt)or, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore.^' 

But  the  raven,  sitting  lonely 
On  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in 

That  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothino-  farther  then  he  uttered. 
Not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered  ; 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, 

"  Other  friends  have  flown  before ; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  lea\e  me. 

As  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken 

By  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 

"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters 

Is  its  only  stock  and  store. 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  mastei", 
Whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fnst  and  followed  foster, 

Till  his  songs  one  burden  bore, 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  the 


THE   RAVEN.  14' 

Melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  'Never  —  nevermore.'" 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling 
All  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  iu 

Front  of  bird,  and  bust  and  door ; 
Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking, 
I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking 

What  this  ominous  bird  of  yore, 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly, 

Gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yoi-e 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing, 

But  no  syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now 

Burned  into  my  bosom's  core; 
This,  and  more,  I  sat  divining, 
With  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining 

That  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er; 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining, 

With  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press  — ah,  nevermore! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser, 
Perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  angels,  whose  faint  f)otfalk 
Tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 


148  THE   RAVEN. 

"  Wretcli  !  "  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  tliee, 

By  these  angels  lie  hath  sent  thee, 

Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe 
From  thy  memories  of  Lenore  I 

QuafF,   O  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe, 
And  forget  this  lost  Lenore  ! " 
Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  ! 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether 

Tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore. 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted. 
On  this  desert  land  enchanted, 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted, 

Tell  me  truly,  I  implore  : 
Is  there,  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? 

Tell  me  —  tell  me,  I  implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  raven  "Nevermore." 

"'  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  ! 

Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil  ! 

Ry  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us 

By  that  God  we  both  adore. 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden 
If,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore, 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 


THK    llAVKN.  149 

"  Be  tliat  word  our  sio;n  of  jwrtino-, 
Bird  or  fiend  I  "   I  shrieked,  upstartiiiii; ; 
"Get  tliee  back  into  tlie  tempest 

And  the  Night's  Phitonian  sliore 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token 
Of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  sj^oken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  mibroken  ! 

Qu't  the  bust  above  my  door! 
Take  thy  l)eak  from  out  my  heart, 

And  take  thy  i'ovm  from  oflF  my  door  I" 

Quoth  the  raven   "  Nevermore." 

And  the  raven,  never  flittinn;, 
Still  is  sittiiifj;,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chandler  door: 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 
Of   a    demon's    that   is  dreann'ng, 
And  the  lamplight,  o'er  him  strenming, 

Ti'vows  his  shadow   on   the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from   out  that  shadow 

That  lies  floating  on  the  flooi 

Snail   be  lifted  —  nevermore  ! 

Edcak    a  1. 1. an    I'oK. 


' '  ^%wmM^i>i 


THE   SABBATH   MORNING. 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn, 
That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still. 
A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne  ; 
A  graver  murmur  gurgles  from  the  rill, 
150 


SONNET:    ON    HIS  HLTNDNESS.  151 

And  Eclio  answers  softer  from  tlie  hill, 
And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn  ; 
The  sky-lark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 
Hail,  light  serene  !  hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn  ! 
The  rooks  float  silent  by,  in  airy  drove  ; 
The  skv  a  placid  yellow  lustre  throws  ; 
The  gales,  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove. 
Have  hushed  their  downy  wings  in  dead  repose  : 
The  iiovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move  : 
So  soft  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose. 

John  Leyden. 


soNNpyr:  ON  nis  blindness. 

When  I  consider  how  my  liglit  is  spent, 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and   wide  ; 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith   my  Maker,  and  ])resent 
My  true  account,  lest  lie,   returning,  chide  — 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  liglit  denied?  ' 
I   fondly  ask  ;    but  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,   soon   replies  :    "  God  doth   not  need 
Either  man's   work,   or  his  own  gift;    who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  tliey  serve  him  best ;   his  state 

Is  kingly;    thousands  at  his   bidding  speed. 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
Thev  also  serve   who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Jons    Ml  I. TON. 


TO   KEEP   A  TRUE   LENT. 

Is  this  a  fast :  to  keep 
The  larder  lean. 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  ? 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 
The  platter  high   with  fish  ? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour? 

Or  ragged   to  go  ? 
Or  show 
A  downcast  look,  and  sour  ? 

No  !  't  is  a  fast  to   dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat, 
And  meat, 
Unto  the   hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife. 
From   old  debate 
And  hate  — 
To  circumcise  thy  life. 
152 


THE   EMIGRANTS.  153 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent : 
To  starve  thy  sin, 
Not  bin^ 
And   that  's  to  kee})  tliy   lent. 

llor.KIM      MliUKICK. 


THE   EMIGRANTS. 

I   CANNOT  take  my  eyes  away 

From  you,  ye  busy,  busthng  band  ! 

Your  little  all  to  see  you  lay, 

Each,  in  the  waiting  seaman's  hand. 

Ye  men,  avIio  from  your  necks  set  down 
The  heavy  basket  on   the   earth. 

Of  bread  from  German  com,  baked  brown 
By  German   Avives  on  German  hearth  ! 

And  you,  with  braided  queues  so  neat, 
Black-Forest  maidens,  slim  and  brown, 

How  careful  on  the  sloop's  green  seat 
You  set  your  pails  and  pitchers  down  ! 

Ah  !  oft  have  home's  cool,  shady  tanks 
These  pails  and  pitchers  filled  for  you  I 

On  far  Missouri's  silent  banks 

Shall  these  the  scenes  of  home  renew  : 

The  stone-rimmed  fount  in  village  street, 
That,  as  ye  stooped,  betrayed  your  smiles  ; 


154 


THE    EMKiKANTS. 


The  lieartli,  and  its  faniiliar  seat  ; 
The  mantel  and  the  pictured  tiles. 

Soon,  in  the  far  and  wooded  West, 

Shall  log-house  walls  therewith  be   irraced  ; 

Soon  many  a  tired,  tawny  guest 

Shall   sweet   refreshment  from   tlieni   taste. 


From   them  shall   drink  the   Cherokee, 
Faint  with  the  hot  and  dusty  chase 


THE  EMIGRANTS.  155 

No  more  from  German  vintage  ve 

Shall  bear   tliem  home,  in  leaf-crowned  ori-ice. 

O  say,  why  seek  ye  otlier  lands  ? 

The  Neckar's  vale  hath   wine  and  corn  ; 
Full  of  dark  firs  the  Schwarzwald  stands ; 

In  Spessart  rings  the   Alp-herd"s  horn. 

Ah  !   in   strange  forests  how  ye  'II   vearn 
For  the  green  mountains  of  vour  home  — 

To  Deutschland's  yellow  wheat-fields  turn, 
In  spirit  o'er  her  vine-hills  roam  ! 

How  wnll  the  form   of  days  grown  pale 

In  golden  dreams  float  softly  by  ! 
Like  some  unearthly,  mystic  tale, 

'T  will  stand  before  fond  memory's  eye. 

The  boatman  calls  !  —  Go  hence  in  peace  ! 

God  bless  ye,  man  and  wife   and  sire  I 
Bless  all  your  fields  with   rich  increase, 
And  crown  each  true  heart's  pure  desire  I 

Ferdixand  Frpulfgrath.   ((Jcrniaii.) 
Translation  u(  Charlks  T.  Beooks. 


SONG   OF   FAIRIES. 

We  the  fairies,  blitlie  and  antic, 

Of  dimensions  not  gigantic, 

Though  the  moonshine  mostly  keep  lis. 

Oft  in  orchards  frisk  and  ])eep  us. 

Stolen  sweets  are  always  sweeter ; 
Stolen  kisses  much  completer; 
Stolen  looks  are  nice  in  chapels  : 
Stolen,  stolen  be  your  apples. 

When  to  bed  the  world  are  bobbing. 
Then  's  the  time  for  orchard-robbing  ; 
Yet  the  fruit  were  scarce  worth   peelino- 
Were  it  not  for  stealing,  stealing. 

Thomas  Eaxdolph.    (Latir.) 


Translation  of  Leigh  Hunt. 


STR   PETER. 

Ix  his  last  bin  Sir  Peter  lies, 

Who  knew  not  what  it  was  to  frown  ; 
Death  took  him  mellow,  by  surprise, 

And  in  his  cellar  stopped  him  down. 
Through  all  our  land  we  could  not  boast 

A  knight  more  gay,  more  prompt  than   he 
To  rise  and  fill  a  bumper  toast, 

And  pass  it  round  with  "  Three  tunes  Three  I 
15(3 


ARMSTRONG'S   GOOD-NIGHT.  157 

None  better  knew  the  feast  to  sway, 

Or  keep  mirth's  boat  in  better  trim  ; 
For  Nature  had  but  little  clay 

Like  that  of  which  she  moulded  him. 
The  meanest  guest  that  graced  his  board 

Was  there  the  freest  of  the  free, 
His  bumper  toast  when   Peter  poured 

And  passed  it  round  with  "  Three  times  Three  !  " 

He  kept  at  true  good  humor's  mark 

The  social  flow  of  pleasure's  tide  ; 
He  never  made  a  brow  look  dark. 

Nor  caused  a  tear  but  when  he  died. 
No  sorrow^  round  his  tomb  should  dwell  : 

More  pleased  his  gay  old  ghost  would  be, 
For  funeral  song  and  passing  bell. 

To  hear  no  sound  but  "  Three  times  Three  !  " 

Thomas  Love  Pkacock. 


ARMSTRONG'S   GOOD-NIGHT. 

This  night  is  my  departing  night. 

For  here  nae  langer  must  I  stay  ; 

There  's  neither  friend  nor  foe  o'  mine 
But  wishes  me  away. 

What  I  have  done  thro'  lack  o'  wit 

I  never,   never  can  recall. 
I  hope  ye  're  a'  my  friends  as  yet  : 

Good-night !     And  joy  be  wi"  you  all  ! 

Anon  VMiM 


THE    SENTRY. 

My  heart,  my  heart  is  weary ; 

Yet  merrily  beams  the  May, 
And  I  lean  against  the  linden. 

High  up  uji  the  terrace  gray. 

The  town-moat  far  below  me 

Runs  silent  and  sad  and  blue  ; 

A  boy  in  a  boat  floats  o'er  it, 

Still  fishincj  and  whistlinir  too. 

And  a  beautiful  varied  picture 

Spreiids  out  beyond  the  flood  : 

Fair  houses,  and  gardens,  and  people, 

And  cattle,  and  meadow,  a>id  wood. 

Younf:  maidens  are  bleaching  the  linen  : 
They  laugh  as  they  go  and  come  ; 

And  the  mill-wheel  is  dripping  with  diamonds 
I  list  to  its  far-away  hum. 

And  high  on  yon  old  gray  castle 

A  sentry-box  peeps  o'er, 
While  a  young  red-coated  soldier 

Is  pacing  beside  the  door. 
158 


THE    WORLD    IS   TOO    MUCH    WITH    US.  1  ;-)i> 

He  handles  lils  sliinino-  musket, 

Whicli  gleams  in  the  snnli<iht  red  ; 

He  halts,  he  presents,  he  shoulders  - 

I   wish    that  he  'd  shoot   me  deiid  ! 

IlKixiiicri  IIkixk.     (Gennnn.) 
Ti;iii>lati(in  of  Ciiaiiijus  Godkkkv  Lki.axm. 


THE    WORLD    IS   TOO   MUCH    WITH    US. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  iis  :  late  and  soon. 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  p9wers. 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away  —  a  sordid  boon  I 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will   be  howling  at  all    hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers  — 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 
It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God  !     I  'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  1,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  — 
Have  siglit  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea. 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

William  Woudswoi:  r 


^</^'^/    ^^^'  -^''''■^&^'' 


S()X(4. 


Pack,  clouds,  away  I  and  welcome,  day  I 
With  ni'obt  we  banish  sorrow  ; 


160 


SONG.  KU 

Sweet  air,  blow  soit !  mount,  lark,  aloft  I 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I  '11  borrow  ; 
Bird,  j)rune  thy  wing!  nightingale,  sing! 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow  : 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow 

Notes  from  them  all   I  '11  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast  ! 

Sing,   birds,  in  every  furrow  ! 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush. 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow  : 
You  pretty  elves,  among  yourselves, 

Sing  mv  fair  love  good-morrow  ! 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow 

Sing,   birds,   in  every  furrow  I 

Thomas  Heywood 


now    SLEEF    J'HE   BRAVE. 

How  sleep  the  brave,   who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,   with  dewy  fingers  cold. 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  thei-e  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than   Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell   is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung  ; 
There   Honor  conies,   a  i)ilgrini  gray. 
To  bless  the  turf  that  w-raps  their  clay  ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there  ! 

William  Collins. 


SONG. 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest. 

And,  climbing,  shakes  his  dewy   wings 

He  takes  this  window  for  the  east, 

And,   to  implore  your  light,  he  sings. 

Awake  !  awake  I  —  the  Morn   will   never  rise 

Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  yoiu'  eyes. 
162 


JO    IDEJE   LEAIEXT    A   NAP.  i,.o 

The  mercliant  bows  unto  tlie  seaman's  star, 

The  plouglnnan  from  the  sun  liis  season  takes  ; 

Hut  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are 

Who  look  for  day  before  his  mistress   wakes. 

Awake,  aw?ko!  —  lirenk  thr<)u;:li  your  veils  of  lawn  ! 

Then  draw  your  curtains,  and  begni  the  dawn. 

Si  R    \V^  I L I  I A  M     D  A  V  K  \  A  N  T . 


JO   IDEJE    LEMENT   A  NAT. 

All  the  earth  is   wrapped  in  shadows, 

And  the  dews  have  drenched  the   meadows, 

And   the  moon  has  ta'en  her  station, 

And   the   midnight  rules  creation. 

Where  is  my  beloved  staving  ? 

In  her  chamber,  kneeling,  praying. 

Is  she  praying  for  her  lover  ? 

Then   her  heart  is  flowing  over. 

My  beloved  !  is  she  keeping 

Watch,  or  is  she  sweetly  sleeping  ? 

If  she  dream,  her  dreams  are  surely 

Of  the  one  slie  loves  so  purely. 

If  she  sleep  not,   if  sh'3   pray   not, 

If  to  listening  ear  she  say  naught  — 

Thought   with   thought  in   silence   linking, 

O,  I  know   of  whom  she  's  thinking  I 

Think,   O   think  of  me,  sweet  angel. 

Rose   of  life,   and   love's  evangel  ! 


1(54  ECHO   AND   SILENCE, 

All  the  thoughts  that  melt  or  move  thee 

Are  like  stars  that  shine  above  thee  ; 

And   wjiile  shining,  to  the  centre 

Of  thy  spirit's  spirit  enter, 

And  there  light  a  flame  supernal  — 

Like  eternal  love,  eternal. 

Alkxaxdkk  Pkiofi.     (Hungarian) 
Translation    of  Sin  John  Bowring. 


ECHO   AND   SILENCE. 

In  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to  fly. 

And  Autumn  in  her  lap  the  store  to  strew, 

As  mid  wild  scenes  I  chanced  tlie  Muse  to  woo, 

Tlii'ough  glens  untrod  and  woods  that  frowned  on  high, 

Two  sleeping  nymphs,  with  wonder  mute,   I  spy : 

And  lo !  she  's  gone  —  in  robe  of  dark  green  hue, 
'T  was  Echo  from  her  sister  Silence  flew  ; 

For  quick  the  hunter's  horn  resounded  to  the  sky. 

In  shade  affrighted  Silence  melts  away. 

Not  so  her  sister  —  hark  !  for  onwartl  still, 

Witli  far-heard  step,  she  takes  her  listening  way, 
Bounding  from  rock  to  rock,  and  hill  to  hill  : 

Ah  !    mark  the  merry  maid,  in  mockful  play. 

With   thousand  mimic  tones  the  laughing  forest  fill  ! 

SiK  Egerton  Bkydgks. 


THE   SABBATH. 

Fresh  glides  the  brook,  and  blows  the  gait.', 
Yet  yonder  halts  the  quiet  mill  ! 

The  whirring  wheel,   the  rushing  sail, 
How  motionless  and  still  ! 

Six  days  of  toil,  poor  child  of  Cain, 

Thy  strength  the  slave  of  want  may  be 

The  seventh  thy  limbs  escape  the  chain  — 
A   God  hath  made  thee  free  ! 

Ah  !  tender  was  the  law  that  gave 

This  holy  respite  to  the  breast  — 

To  breathe  the  gale,  to  watch  the  wave, 
And  know  the  wheel  may  rest ! 

But  where  the  waves  the  gentlest  glide 

What  image  charms,  to  lift  thine  eves  ? 

The  spire  reflected  on   the  tide 
Invites  thee  to  the  skies. 

To  teach  the  soul  its  nobler  worth 

This  rest  from  mortal  toils  is  given  : 

Go,  snatch  the  brief  reprieve  from  earth, 
And  pass  —  a  guest  to  heaven  ! 
165 


166  ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CIIAPMAN-S  HOMER. 

They  tell  thee,  in  their  dreaming  school, 

Of  power  from  old  dominion  hurled, 

When   rich  and  poor,  with  juster  rule, 
Siiall  sliare  the  altered  world. 

Alas !  since  time  itself  began. 

That  fable  hath   but  fooled  tlie  hour  ; 

Each  age  that  ripens  power  in   man 
But  subjects  man  to  power. 

Yet  every  day  in  seven,  at  least. 

One  bright  republic  shall  be  known  : 

Man's  world  awhile  Iiath  surely  ceased 
When   God  proclaims  His  own  ! 

Six  days  may   rank  divide  the  poor, 

O  Dives,  from  tliy  banquet-hall  ! 

The  seventh  the  Father  opes  the  door. 
And  holds  His  feast  for  all  ! 

Edward  Bui-wku  Lytion. 


ON   FIRST   LOOKING   INTO    CHAPMAN'S   HOMER 

Much   have   I  travelled   in   the   realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and   kingdoms  seen  ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have   I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Ajiollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  exjianse  had  I. been  told 
That  deep-browed  Homer  nded  as  his  demesne  ; 


ox    FIRST    LOOKING    INTO    CHAPMAN'S    llOMKll 

Yet  did   I   never  breathe   its   jjure  serene 
Till  I  heard   Chapman   speak   out  loud  and   hold  : 
Then  felt   I   like  some   watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new   planet  swims   into  his  ken  ; 


u; 


'^^W^''-^^  .  ^ 


"W 


"S^jt    .- 


Or  like  stout  Cortez,   when   witli  eai^le  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific  ;    and  all    his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 
Silent,   upon  a  peak  in   Darien. 


Jo  UN"  Kkats. 


THE  MAKING    OF   MAN. 

Before  the  beginning  of  years 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man. 
Time,  witli  a  gift  of  tears  ; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran  ; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven  ; 

Summer,  with  flowers  that  fell  ; 
Remembrance,  fallen  from  heaven, 

And  madness,  risen  from  hell  ; 
Strength,  without  hands  to  smite  ; 

Love,  that  endures  for  a  breath  ; 
Night,  the  shadow  of  light. 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 

And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears. 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years  ; 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea ; 

And  dust  of  the  laboring  earth  ; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth  ; 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter. 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 
IfiS 


THE   MAKING    OF   MAN.  j  ^jq 

Foi'  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow, 

Tliat  ills  strength   might  endure   for  a  .si»an, 

With  travail  and   heavy  sorrow, 
The   holy  spirit   of  man. 

From  the   winds  of  the   north  and   the  south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife  ; 
They  breathed  upon   his   mouth, 

They  filled   his  body   with   life  ; 
Eyesight  and  speech   they   wrought 

For  the   veils  of  the  soul   therein, 
A    time   for  labor  and  thought, 

A  time   to  serve   and   to  sin  ; 
They  gave   him   light  in   his   wa\s, 

And   love,  and  a  s])ace  for  delight, 
And  beauty,   and   length   of  days. 

And  night,   and  sleep  in   the   night. 
His  speech   is  a  burning  fire  ; 

With   his  lips   he   travaileth  ; 
In    his  heart  is  a  blind   desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death  : 
He   weaves,  and  is  clothed   with   derision  ; 

Sows,   and  he  shall   not  reaj) ; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 

Algf.i;xo.\   CiiAi{r.K.«   Swini!I'i:.nk. 


CALM    IS    THE    NIGHT. 

Cat,m   is  the  niii'lit,  and  the  city  is  slceitinij;. 

Once  in  tin's  honse  dwelt  a  lady  fair  ; 
Lone;,  lonp;  arjo,  she  left  it,  weeping  — 

But   still   the   old   honse   is  standino-  there. 


Voiulei-  a  man  at  the  heavens  is  staring. 
Wringing  his  hands  as  in  sorrowful  case  ; 
]70 


IF  I   DESIRE   WITH   PLEASANT   SONGS. 

He  turns  to  the  inoonllo;ht,  his  countenance  barino-  — 
O  Heaven  I  he  shows  me  my  own  sad  face  ! 

Shadowy  form,  with  my  own  agreeing  ! 

Why  mockest  thou  thus,  in  the  moonliglit  cold. 
The  sorrows  wliich  here  once   vexed  my  beint'. 

Many  a  night  in  the  days  of  old? 

Heinrich   Hfixe.     (German.) 
Translation  of  Charles  Godfrey  Leland. 


171 


IF   I   DESIRE   WITH  PLEASANT   SONGS. 

If  I  desire  with  pleasant  songs 
To  throw  a  merry  liour  away, 

Comes  Love  unto  me,  and  my   wrongs 
In  careful  tale  he  doth    display. 

And  asks  me  how  I  stand  for  singing 

While  I  my  helpless  hands  am   wringing. 

And  then  another  time,  if  I 

A  noon  in  shady  bower  would  pass, 

Comes  he  with  stealthy  gesture  sly, 
'Xnd  flinging  down  upon  the  grass, 

Quoth  he  to  me  :  My  master  dear. 

Think  of  this  noontide  such  a  year  I 

And  if  elsewhile  I  lay  my  head 
On  pillow,   with   intent  to  sleep, 


l^^,2  THE  UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY. 

Lies  Love  beside  me  on  the  bed, 

And  gives  me  ancient  words  to  keep ; 
Says  he  :  Tliese  looks,  these  tokens,  number  — 
May  be,  they  '11  lielj)  you  to  a  slumber  ! 

So  every  time  when  I  would  yield 

An  hour  to  quiet,  comes  he  still, 
And  hunts  up  every  sign  concealed, 

And  every  outward  sign  of  ill ; 
And  gives  me  his  sad  face's  pleasures 
For  merriment's,  or  sleep's,  or  leisure's. 

Thomas  Burdidge. 


THE   UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY. 

Could  we  but  know 
The  land  that  ends  our  dark,  uncertain  travel. 

Where  lie  those  happier  hills,  and  meadows  low  - 
Ah  !  if  beyond  the  spirit's  inmost  cavil 

Aught  of  that  country  could  we  surely  know  — 
Who  would  not  go  ? 

Might  we  but  hear 
The  hovering  angels'  high  imagined  chorus, 

Or  catch  betimes,  witli  wakeful  eyes  and  clear, 
One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm   before  us, 

Witli  one  raj)t  moment  given  to  see  and  hear  — 
Ah  !   who  would  fear  ? 


NEARER  TO  THEE.  l^-.j 

Were  we  quite  sure 
To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left  us  lonely  ; 
Or  there,  by  some  celestial  stream  as  pure, 

To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  lovelit  only 

This   weary  mortal   coil,   were  we  quite  sure. 
Who  would  endure  ? 

Edmuxd  Clakkxce  Stedman. 


NEARER   TO    THEE. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee  ! 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raisetli   me  ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee ! 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 

Though,  like  a   wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down. 

Darkness  be  over  me. 
My  rest  a  stone. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  TJiee  ! 

There  let  the   way  appear 
Steps  unto  heaven  ; 


1  ^4     THE   HIGH   TIDE    OX   THE    COAST   OF   LIXCOLNSHIRK 

All  that  Thou  sendest  me 

In  mercy  given  : 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Tliee  I 

Tiien,  Avith   my  waking  thoughts 

Bright  with   Thy  praise, 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 

Bethel  I  '11  raise  : 
So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 

Or  if,  on  joyful  wing 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

Upward  I  fly  — 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee ! 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 

Sauah  Flower   Adams 


THE   HIGH   TIDE   OX   THE   COAST   OF   LIXCOLXSIIIRE. 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower. 
The  rincrers  ran  bv  two,  bv  three  : 

"  Pull !  if  ye  never  pulled  before  ; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best !  "  quoth   hee. 


THE   IIIGM   TIDE    ON   THE    COAST   OF   LINCOLNSHIRE.      ]; 

"  Play  ui)pe,   \)]ny  uppe,   O   Boston   bells  ! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells ! 

Play  uppe  '  The   Brides  of  Eiulerby  !  *  " 

i\Ien  say  it  was  a  stolen  tycle  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all  ; 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall  ; 

And  there   was  nought  of  strange,   beside 

The  flights  of  mews  and  ju^ewlts  pic-d. 

By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea-wall. 

I  sat  and  span  within  the  doore  ; 

My   thread  brake   off,   I  raised  myne  eyes : 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 

Lay  sinking  in  tlie   barren  skies  ; 
And,  dark  against  day's  golden  death, 
She  moved   where  Lindis  wandereth  — 
My  Sonne's  faire  wife,   Elizabeth. 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  calling. 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"  Cusha  !  Cuslia  !  "  all  aloug  ; 
Where  the   reedy   Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,   floweth. 
From  the  meads  where   melick  groweth, 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song. 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
"  For  the  dews   will  soone  be   falling  ; 


17(i      THE   HIGH   TIDE    ON   THE   COAST    OF   LlNCOLNSHmE. 

Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow  ! 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  I 
Come  uppe,  Wliitefoot !  come  uppe,  Liglitfoot  .1 
Quit  tlie  stalks  of  parsley   hollow, 

Hollow,   hollow  ! 
Come  uppe.  Jetty!  rise  and  follow  : 
From   the  clovers  lift  your  head  ! 
Come  uppe,   Wliitefoot !  come  uppe,   Liglitfoot  I 
Come  uj)j)e.  Jetty  !   rise  and  follow. 
Jetty,  to  the  milkino-  shed  I  " 

If  it  be  loiijj  —  av,  lono;  airo  — 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long 

Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong  ; 

And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee. 

Bin  full  of  floating  bells   (sayth  shee), 

That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alls  fi'esh  the  level   pasture  lay. 

And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene, 

Save  where,  full  fyve  good  miles  away, 
The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene. 

And  lo  !  the  m-eixt  bell  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side. 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds,  where  their  sedges  are, 
Moved  on   in  sunset's  golden   breath  ; 
The  shepherde-Iads  I   heard  afarre, 


THE    HIGH   TIDE   OX   THE   COAST   OF   LINCOLNSHHIE.      177 

And   my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth  ; 
Till,  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea. 
Came   tlowne  tliat  kyndl}'  message  free, 
"  The   Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky. 

And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 
To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie. 

And  where  the  lordly  steejile  shows : 
Thev  sayde,  "  And  whv  should  this  thino;  be  ? 
What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea, 
They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby  ? 

"  For  evil  news  from   jNIablethorpe, 

Of  jjvrate  galleys  warping  down  — 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  liave  not  &])ared  to  wake  the  towne  ; 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee. 
Why  ring  '  Tlie  Brides  of  Enderby  ?  '  " 

I   looked  without,  and  lo !  my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  miglit  and  main  ; 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on. 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again  : 

"  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !  " 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"  The  olde  sea-wall  (he  crycd)  is  downe  ! 


178     THE   HIGH   TIDE    ON   THE   COAST   OF   LINCOLNSHIRE. 

The  rising  tide  conies  on  apace  ; 
And  boats,  adrift  in  yonder  towne, 

Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place  !  " 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 
"  God  save  you,  mother !  "   straight  he  sayth  ; 
"  AVhere  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  ?  " 

"  Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away, 

With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  lono; ; 
And  eie  yon  bells  beganne  to  play. 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  sea. 
To  right,  to  left  :  "  Ho,  Enderby  !  " 
They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  Enderby  !  " 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his   breast  ; 

For  lo  !    along  the  river's  bed 
A   mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest. 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud  — 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud. 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  slu'oud. 

And  rearing  Lindis,  backward  pressed, 

Shook  all  her  trembhng  bankes  amaine  ; 
Then  madly  at  the   eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  dovs^ne  with  ruin  and  rout  — 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about  — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 


THE   HIGH  TIDE    ON   THE   COAST  OF   LINCOLNSHIRE.    170 

So  farre,  so  fast,  tlie  ejgre  drave, 

Tlie  lieart  had  liardl}^  time  to  beat 
Before  a  shallow  seethino-  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet : 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee  — 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea  ! 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night ; 

The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by  ; 
I  marked  the  lofty  beacon-light 

Stream  from  the  cdnu'ch  tower,  red  and  hii^h  — 
A  lurid  mark,  and  dread  to  see  ; 
And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 
That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor-lads  to  guide. 

From  roofe  to  roofe  wlio  fearless  rowed  ; 

And  I  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side. 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed  ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"  O  come  in   life,  or  come  in  death  I 

O  lost !  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  ? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  deare  ! 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear  : 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  tliy  face, 
Downe-drifted  to  thy  dwelling-])lace  ! 


180      THE  HIGH   TIDE   ON   THE    COAST   OF   IJXCOLNSHIRE 

Tliat  flow  strewed   wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea  — 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas  ! 

To  manye   more   than  niyne  and  nice  ; 

But  each  will   mourn  his  own   (she  sayth). 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 

By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !   Cusha  !  "  calling, 

Eiv  the  early  dews  be  falling  ; 

I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 

"Cusha!  Cusha!"  all  along, 

Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goetli,  floweth, 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 
When  the  water,  winding  down. 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more. 
Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver. 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river  — 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling, 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  lier  calling, 
•■'  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow. 

Mellow,  mellow  ! 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ! 
Come  up])e,  Whitefoot!  come  uppe,   Lightfoot ! 


COME   SLEEP,    O   SLEEP!  j^^ 

Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow  ! 
Come  uppe,  Lightfoot !  rise  and  follow, 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot : 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head  ! 
Come  uppe,  Jetty  !  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed !  " 

Jkax  Inuklow. 


COME,  SLEEP,   O   SLEEP! 

Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep !  the  certain  knot  of  })i'ace, 

The  baiting- place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe; 

The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release  ; 

The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low  ! 

With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 

Of  those  fierce  darts  despair  doth  at  me  throw. 

O !  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease : 

I  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 

A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light, 

A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head  ; 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right. 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 

Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 

Sir  Piiii.ii'  Sjdnky. 


THE   JOLLY    OLD   PLDAGOGUE. 


'T  WAS  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago, 

Tall   and  slender,  and  sallow  and   dry; 
1S2 


THE  JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE.  183 

His  form   was  bent,  and  liIs  gait  was  slow, 
His  long,   tliin   liaif  was  as   white  as  snow, 

But  a  wonderful   twinkle  shone  in   his  eye  ; 
And   he   sang  every  night  as  he   went  to  bed, 

^  Let  us  be   happy  down   here  below  ; 
Tiie   living  should  Hve,   though   the  dead  be  dead," 

Said   the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  taught  his  scliolars  the   rule  of  three, 

Writing,  and   reading,  and  history,   too  ; 
He  took   the  little  ones  uj)  on  his  knee. 
For  a  kind  old  heart  in  his  breast  had  he, 

And  the  wants  of   the  littlest  child  he   knew: 
"■  I.iearn   while  you  're  young,"   he  often   said, 

"  There  is  much  to  enjoy,  down  here  below  ; 
Life  for  the  living,  and  rest  for  the  dead  !  " 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

With  the   stupidest  boys   he  was  kind  and  cool, 

Speaking  only  in  gentlest  tones  ; 
The  rod  was  hardly  known  in  his  school  .  .  . 
Whijiping,  to  him,   was  a  barbarous  rule, 

And  too  hard   work  for  his  ])Oor  old  bones  ; 
Beside,   it   was  painful,  he  sometimes  said  : 

'■'  We  should  make  life  pleasant,  dcnvn  here  below, 
The  living  need  charity  more  than  the  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  lived  in  the  house  by  the  hawthorn   lane. 
With  roses  and  woodbine  over  the  door  ; 


184  THE  JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE. 

His  rooms  were  quiet,  and  neat,  and  iil;iin, 
P>iit  a  spirit  of  comfort  there   lield  rei;j:;n, 

Anil  made  liim  forget  lie  was  old  and  poor  ; 
"  I  need  so  little,"  he  often  said  ; 

"  And  my   friends  and  relatives   here    below 
Won't  litigate  over  me  when  I  am  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

But  the  pleasantest  times  that  he  had,  of  all, 

Were  the  sociable  hours  he  used  to  pass, 
With   his  chair  tipped  back  to  a  neighbor's  wall, 
Making  an  unceremonious  call. 

Over  a  ])ipe  and  a  friendly  glass  : 
This  was  the  finest  pleasure,  he   saifl. 

Of  the  many  he  tasted,  here  below  ; 
"  Who  has  no  cronies,  had  better  be  dead  !  " 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

Then  the  jolly  old  pedagogue's  wrinkled  face 

Melted  all  over  in  sunshiny  smiles  ; 
He  stirred  nis  glass  with  an  old-school   grace. 
Chuckled,  and  sipped,  and  prattled  apace, 

Till  the  house  o-rew  merry,  from  cellar  to  tiles 
"  I  'm  a  pretty  old   man,"   he  gently  said, 

"•  I  have  lingered  a  long  while,   here  below  ; 
But  my  heart  is  fresh,  if  my  youth  is  fled  !  " 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  .smoked  his   pipe  in   the  balmy  air. 

Every  night  when  the  sun   went  down. 


THE   JOLLY    OLD   PEDAGOGUE.  1«; 

While  the  soft  wind  ])layed  in   liis  silvery   hair, 
Leaving  his  teiiderest  kisses  there, 

On  the  jolly  old  pedagogue's  jolly  old  crow  m  : 
And,  feeling  the  kisses,  he  smiled,  and  said, 

'T  was  a  glorious  world,  down  here  below  ; 
•"  Why   wait  for  ha|)])iness   till   we  are  dead  ?  " 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  sat  at  his  door,  one  midsummer  night, 

After  the  sun   had  sunk  in  the  west. 
And  the  lingering  beams  of  golden  light 
Made  his  kindly  old  face   look   warm   and  bright, 

While  the  odorous  night- wind   whispered,  "  Rest  I "" 
Gently,  gently,  he  bowed  his  head  .  .  . 

There   were  angels   waiting  for  him,   I  know  ; 
He  was  sure  of  happiness,  living  or  dead, 

This  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago! 

GkOKGK     AUNOI-I). 


t/p^o  4JiJi^    )^iAM    HuaA.  a£t-  ci-ai,  ^o^f ; 
l/iuT  Uuy    ^-^   ^e^  /M  ifcl     ItLviii,^ 
tMlS?  ^«^    tri.  4}o-^  ! 


CAUGHT! 

Birds  are  singing  round  my  window, 

Tunes  the  sweetest  ever  heard, 
And  I  liang  my  cage  there  daily, 

But  I  never  catcli  a  bird. 

So  with  thoug]its  my  brain  is  peopled. 
And  they  sing  there  all  day  long  ; 

But  they   will   not  fold  their  pinions 
In  the  little  cage  of  sono; ! 

Richard    IIkxhy    SronnAKD. 


A  DEDICATION. 

The  sea  gives  her  shells  to  the  shingle, 

The  earth  gives  her  streams  to  the  sea  ; 
They  are  many,  but  my  gift  is  single  — 

My  verses,  the  first-fruits  of  me. 
Let  the  wind  take  the  green  and  the  gray  leaf, 

Cast  forth  without  fruit  upon  air  — 
Take  rose-leaf  and  vine-leaf  and  bay-leaf, 

Blown  loose  from  the  hair. 

The  night  shakes  them  round  me  in  legions, 
Dawn  drives  them  before  her  like  dreams  ; 

Time  sheds  them   like  snows  on  strange  regions, 
Swept  shoreward  on   infinite  streams : 

187 


13^  A   DEDICATION. 

Leaves  pallid  and  sombre  and  ruddy, 
Dead  fruits  of  the  fugitive  years  — 

Some  stained  as  with   wine  and  made  bloody, 
And  some  as  with  tears  ; 

Some  scattered  in  seven  years'  traces. 

As  they  fell  from  tlie  boy  that  was  then  — 
Long  left  among  idle  green  places, 

Or  gathered  but  now  among  men  : 
On  seas  full  of  wonder  and    peril, 

Blown   white  round  the  capes  of  the  north  : 
Or  in   islands  when'e  myrtles  are  sterile, 

And  loves  bring  not  forth. 

O  daughters  of  dreams,  and  of  stories 

That  life  is  not  wearied  of  yet, 
Faustine,   Fragoletta,  Dolores, 

Felise  and   Yolande  and  Juliette  ! 
Shall  I  find  you  not  still,  shall   I  miss  you. 

When  sleep,  that  is  true  or  that  seems. 
Comes  back   to  me,   hopeless   to  kiss  you, 

O  daughters  of  dreams  ? 

They  are  past  as  a  slumber  that  passes, 

As  the  dew  of  a  dawn  of  old  time  — 
More  frail  than  the  shadows  on  glasses, 

More  fleet  than  a  wave  or  a  rhyme. 
As  the  waves  after  ebb  drawing  seaward, 

When  their  hollows  are  full  of  the  night. 
So  the  birds  that  flew  singing  to  me-ward 

Recede  out  of  sio-ht : 


A  DEDICATION.  |y.j 

The  songs  of  dead  seasons,  tliat  wander 

On  -wings  of  articulate  words  — 
Lost  leaves,  that  the  shore- wind  may  squander  — 

Liglit  flocks  of  untamable   birds  ; 
Some   sano;  to  me  —  dreamino-  in  class-time, 

And  truant  in  hand  as  in  tongue  ; 
For  the  youngest  were  born  of  boy's  pastime. 

The  eldest  are  young. 

Is  there  shelter  while  life  in  them  lingers, 

Is  there  hearing  for  songs  that  recede  ?  — 
Tunes  touched  from  a  harp  with  man's  fingers, 

Or  bloNvn   with   boy's  mouth  in  a  reed  ? 
Is  there  place  in   the   land  of  your  labor? 

Is  there  room  in  your  world  of  delight. 
Where  change  has  not  sorrow  for  neighbor. 

And  day  has  not  night? 

In  their  wings  though  the  sea-wind  yet  quivers. 

Will  you  spare  not  a  space  for  them  there, 
Made  ofreen   with  the  running  of  rivers 

And  gracious  with  temperate  air  ?  — 
In  the   fields  and  the  turreted  cities. 

That  cover  from  sunshine  and  rain 
Fair  passions  and  bountiful  pities 

And  loves  without  stain  ? 

In  a  land  of  clear  colors  and  stories, 

In  a  region  of  shadowless  hours, 
Where   earth   has  a  garment  of  glories 

And  a  murmur  of  musical  flowers  — 


19Q  A   DEDICATION. 

In   woods  where  the  spring  half  nncovers 

The  flush  of  her  amorous  flice, 
By  the  waters  tliat  listen  for  lovers  — 

For  these  is  there  place  ? 

For  the  song-birds  of  sorrow,  that   nuiflle 

Their  music  as  clouds  do  their  fire  ? 
For  the  storm-birds  of  j)assion,  that  ruffle 

Wild  wings  in  a  wind  of  desire  ? 
In  the  stream  of  the  storm  as  it  settles 

Blown  seaward,  borne  far  from  the  sun  — 
Shaken  loose  on  the  darkness,  like  petals 

Dropt  one  after  one  ? 

Though  the  world  of  your  hands  be  more  oracious 

And  lovelier,  in  lordship  of  things 
Clothed  round  by  sweet  Art  with  the   spacious 

Warm  heaven  of   her  imminent  wings, 
Let  them  enter,  unfledged  and  nigh  fainting, 

For  the  love  of  old  loves  and  lost  times  ; 
And  receive  in  your  palace  of  painting 

This  revel  of  rhymes. 

Though  the  seasons  of  man,  full  of   losses. 

Make   empty  the  ^^ears  full  of  youth. 
If  but  one  thing  be  constant  in  crosses, 

Change  lays  not  her  hand  upon   truth  ; 
Hopes  die,  and  their  tombs  are  for  token 

That  the  grief,   as  the  joy  of  them,  ends 
Ere  Time,  that  breaks  all  men,  has  broken 

The  faith  between  friends. 


THE    LAST   POET.  1<,1 

Thougli   the  many  liglits  dwindle  to  one   light, 

There  is  help  if  the  heaven  has  one  ; 
Though  the  skies  be  discrowned  of  the  sunlight. 

And  the  earth  dispossessed  of  the  sun. 
They  have  moonlight  and  sleep  for  repavinent, 

When,  refreshed  as  a  bride  and  set  free. 
With  stars  and  sea-winds  in  her  raiment, 

Night   sinks  on  the  sea. 

AlGEKXOX     CiIAKI.K.S    SwiMiLltXE. 


THE   LAST   rOET. 

"  When  will  your  bards  be  weary 
Of  rhyining  on  ?     How  long 

Ere  it  is  sung  and  ended, 
The  old,  eternal  song  ? 

"  Is  it  not  long  since  em[)ty, 
The  horn  of  full  sup])ly  ? 

And  all  the  posies  gathered, 
And  all  the  fountains  dry?" 

As  long  as  the  sun's  chariot 
Yet  keeps  its  azure  track. 

And  but  one  luunan   A'isage 

Gives  ansAvering  glances  back  : 


l[)-2  THE   LAST   POET. 

As  long  as  skies  sluill  nourisli 
The  thunderbolt  and  gale, 

And,  frightened  at  their  furv. 
One  throbbing  heart  shall  quail , 

As  long  as  after  tempests 

Shall  spring  one  showery  bow. 

One  breast  with  peaceful  pronii?r 
And  reconcilement  glow  ; 

As  long  as  night  the  concave 
Sows  with  its  starry  seed, 

And  but  one  man  those  letters 
Of  golden  writ  can  read  ; 

Long  as  a  moonbeam  o;limwi*^rs. 

Or  bosom  sighs  a  vow  ; 
Long  as  the  wood-leaves  rustic 

To  cool  a  weary  brow  ; 

As  long  as  roses  blossom, 
And  earth  is  green  in  May  : 

As  long  as  eyes  shall  sparkle 
And  smile  in  pleasure's  roy  • 

As  long  as  cjqiress  shadows 

The  graves  nicre  n.ournful  make, 

Or  one  cheek's  wet  with  Aveeping, 
Or  one  poor  heart  can  break  : 


THE   LAST   POET.  l.j;> 

So  long  on  earth  sliall  wander 

The  goddess  Poesy ; 
And,  with  her,  one  exulting 

ITcr  votarist  to  be. 

And  singing  on,  triumphing, 

The  old  earth-mansion  through, 
Out  marches  the  last  minstrel  I 

He  is  the  last  man  too. 

The  Lord  holds  the  creation 

Forth  in  his  hand  meanwhile. 
Like  a  fresh  flower  just  opened, 

Ai  d  views  it  with  a  smile. 

When  once  this  Flower  Giant 

Beiliiis  to  show  decay. 
And  earths  and  suns  are  flying 

Lik'.'  l)lo.ssom-dust  away. 

Then  ask  —  if  of  the  question 

Not  weary  yet  —  "  How  long 
Ere  it  is  sung  and  ended, 
Tlie  old,  eternal  song  ?  " 

AxTOX  Ai.EXAXDKU   VOX  AuKRSPKKG.     (German.) 
rraiisliition  of  Nathaxikl  Langiion  Fhothingham. 


THE       END. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES. 


A.  Pa.;k 

Away  1  Let  NAUttHT  to  love  displeasing 1  non  s 

A    TRAVELLER    THROUGH    A    DUSTY     ROAD 2faikay  74 

A  WEARY  WEED   TOSSED  TO  AND  FRO Fenner.  s;! 

Ah,  HERE  IT  IS !   The  sliding  rail . .    . .  Holmes 93 

And   ARE   YE   SURE   THE    NEWS    IS   TRUE Miclde.  \\\0 

All  THE  EARTH   IS   WRAPT    IN    SHADOWS Bowrlnij I  C.'i 

B. 

Before  the   beginning  op  years Swinburne 1 68 

Birds  are  singing  round  my  window Sto<hlard 187 

c. 

Come  see  the  dolphin's  anchor  forged f\r>juson <;(» 

Christmas  is  here Thacktray J 1 3 

Calm  is  the   night  and  the  city  is  sleeping Leland 170 

Could  we  but  know  the  land  that  ends  our  dark. Stednian 172 

Come,  sleep,  0  sleep  !   the  certain  knot  op  peace Sidney I  s i 

F. 

From  my  lips  in  their  defilement Browning 1  'I'l 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies.  . . .  .   Sliakspeare 141 

Fresh  glides  the  brook  and  blows  the  gale, P.ubver  Lytton 16.') 

G. 

God  sent  his   singers  upon    earth Longfellow. ...  1 28 

H. 

Here  a  sheer-hulk  lies  poor  Tom   Bowling Dihdin 1 .'! 

Ho  I   Pretty  page  with  the  dimple  chin Tliarkeray 27 

How  sweet  it  were,  IP  without  feeble  fright Hunt ....  .ifl 


1 96  INDEX. 

Pa(;k 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league Tennyson 47 

How    SELDOM.     FRIENT),    A    GOOD   GREAT   MAX    INHERITS Coleridge 86 

How   SLEEP   THE    BRAVE,    WHO    SINK   TO    BEST ColUns..  .     .  162 

I. 

If    I   AM    GONE   ON,    TOU    WILL    FIND    A    SMALL    STRING Barri'S 16 

I    SAW   HIM   ONCE    BEFORE Ilolmcs 22 

I  KNOW    NOT   WHAT  IT    PRESAGES Cranch 31 

Into  the   silent  land Longfellow. ...  50 

In  their  RAGGED   REGIMENTALS McMaster 53 

I    LOVE    CONTEMPLATING    APART Campbell 57 

I    SPRANG   TO   THE    STIRRLT   AND  JORIS   AND    HE BrOWIVng 65 

In   THE   SILENT    MIDNIGHT    WATCHES Coxe 82 

r    GIVE   MY   SOLDIER    BOY    A   BLADE Muginn 112 

It  IS  NOT  BEAUTY  I  DEMAND Carew .  ...  117 

r    DREAMED   A   DREAM — WHAT    CAN   IT   MEAN? Blake 137 

Is   THIS   A   FAST  :    TO    KEEP   THE   LARDER   LEAN HerHck 152 

I    CANNOT   TAKE   MY    EYES   AWAY Brooks 153 

In  HIS  LAST  BUT  Sir  Peter  lies Peacock 156 

In  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to  fly Brydges 164 

Tf  I  desire  WITH  pleasant  songs Burhidge 171 

I.. 

Lone   upon  a  mountain Landon. .  . . 

Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street Bryant.   ...  98 

Lord,  for  the  erring  thought HoweUs 124 

Itt 

My    COACHMAN   IN   THE   MOONLIGHT    THERE Lowell 32 

MT    HEART,    MY   HEART    IS   WEARY Ltland 158 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold Keojts 166 

N. 

Xo  more!  a  harp-string's  deep  and  breaking   tone Hemans 68 

Not  on  a  prayerless  bed Mercer 84 

Nearer  my  God  to  thee AdaTnx. ....  173 

o. 

O  roses  for  the  flush  of  youth EossHt) 2 

Oh.  no,  'twas  lifeless  here,  he  said Barnes 12 


INDEX. 


lit" 


-  Pao  k 

O!    VrUAT   CAN-   AIL   THEE,    KNIGHT    AT   ARMS A'wte U 

OXE   MORE    CXFORTUNATE JJ,^^l  j  - 

0  !    A    GALLANT  SAXS-PEUR Dobtll  40 

0  !    A    WONDERFUL   STREAM    IS   THE    RIVEIJ   TtME Ta>/l"r  77 

Old  wine  to  drink Mtssinger 78 

0,    THOC,    THE    WONDER    OF    ALL     DAYES Htrrick  87 

On  a   BLEAK    RIDGE,    FROM    WHOSE    GRANITE    EDGES Burleigh 102 

Our  BUGLES  sang  truce;  for  the  night  cloud  had  lowered Campbell.  ...  lie 

0,  Tibbie  I  have  seex  the  day Bums 133 

Once,  upon  a  midnight  dreary Poe. 142 

P. 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild Blahe 3 

Pack,  clouds,  away  !  and  welcome,  day Ueywood 160 


Shall  I  wasting  in  despair ...  WUher. . 

Sword  at  my  left  side  gleaming Chorlcy. 

Still-borx  silexce  I    Thou  that  art  Flecknoe  . 

She  sat  and  sung  alway . .  .Rossctti.. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest Jonson  . 

She  whom  this  heart  must  ever  hold  most  dear De  Veie. . 

She  SAYS;  The  cock  crows — hark  ! Alger. . 


70 
95 

97 
115 
139 
142 


T. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  wali>^ Ttnnyson 1 

There's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse Xoel 7 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses Stoddard. ....  20 

The  king  sits  in  Duxfermlise  town Ajion :!4 

The   wisest  of  the  wise  Landtr ii  1 

Two   HAXDS   UPOX   the   BREAST Mulich 81 

The  SHADOWS  lay  along  Broadway Wilis 91 

This  ae  nighte.  this  ae  nighte l/.c  i 96 

The  mountain  sheep  are  sweetee ...  .Peacock.  ...  10(i 

The  king  with  all  the  kingly  train ^Itrling 105 

To    HEAVEN    approached    A     SUFI    SAIXT \lger 119 

The  SHADES  of  night  were  falling  fast LongfelUm- 124 

This  night  is  my  departing  night -Awn 157 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us Wordyworth 159 

The  lark  xow  leaves  his  watery  nest   DavenanL   ...  1 02 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower Ingtloic 174 


11)8  INDEX. 


Page 

TWAS   A   JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE  LONG  AGO Arnold. ....  182 

The  sea  gives  her  shells  to  the   shixgle Swinburne 187 

V. 

Verse,  a  breeze  "mid  blossoms  straying     Coleridye 29 

w. 

When-  love,   with  uxcoxfixed  wixgs Lovelace 24 

With  fixgers  weary  and  worn Hood. ....  43 

When  the  breach  was  opex  laid Maginn  ....  ]  07 

Word  was  brought  to  the  D.vnish  King Norton.  ...  109 

Whex  God  at  first  made  max Herbert 121 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride  Marvell 12G 

"When  the  Sultan  Shah-Zamax Aldrich 13") 

When  Victor  Emmanuel,  the  King Browning 139 

W'ith  silent  awe  I  hailed  the  sacred  :«orx Leyden 150 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent Milton 151 

We  the  fairies,  blithe  and  axtic Randolph 156 

When  will  your  bards  be  aveary Frothingham 191 

Y. 

You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon Browning 10 


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